


Jarring Events

by FishFace6



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Normal Life, Fluff, M/M, Metal-arm Bucky, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Slow Build, Stucky - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-04-16 07:39:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4616928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FishFace6/pseuds/FishFace6
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr prompt: “Neighbors who only meet because I cannot get this stupid jar open, can you help?”</p>
<p>Present AU, Avengers and serums never happened (though Bucky still has a metal prosthetic arm and Steve is extremely feisty). This fic will be slow-building (I'm hoping for somewhere around 10 longish chapters), gratuitous amounts of fluff/pining, and a whole lotta puns/allusions to the Cap movies.</p>
<p>This is my first attempt at writing Stucky (or fan fiction at all) so feedback is GREATLY appreciated. Thanks to my best pal for serving as my editor!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Doors Ajar

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy! This chapter has Steve and Bucky meeting for the first time, both young adults. I know I tagged Nat/Clint/Sam as characters, but they're not present in this chapter, and probably won't be large roles/won't appear until later. Thanks for reading-- comments will be much appreciated!

Steve had moved into his one bedroom, (barely) one bathroom apartment merely a month ago when he began struggling with his recently attained independence.

It wasn’t that Steve is lost without the security of his all-knowing, all-loving mother, Sarah Rogers; contrarily, he quite enjoyed being able to mull around at his own pace and cook his own meals without his mother peering over his shoulder as she would when he was younger and making an after-school snack. _Though, ma’s a darned good cook, wish she had passed that skill down to me._

It wasn’t that Steve missed the familiarity of his childhood home; he liked not having to put his clothes away immediately after doing laundry, and one of the reasons that had nagged at Steve for the past year to move out was the need for his own space to spread out and shamelessly scatter his art, needing not to worry if it'd be stepped on accidentally or thrown away.

It wasn’t even that he missed his (mother’s) previous washing machine that could hold loads three times that of the apartment laundry services, located in his new building's basement, even though Steve lives on the eighth floor and the elevator often goes on the fritz. Such obstacles simply left determined-- albeit asthmatic-- Steve hauling four baskets worth of laundry in one trip because of course he absolutely _can_ bring it all in one trip thank you very much. No, not even faulty elevators and small washers could have forced him to miss the security of his previous living arrangements. What truly made him miss living at home was the nifty rubber grip cloth that helped him open something even more stubborn than he is: jam jars.

This cloth currently resided in the drawer to the right of Sarah Rogers’ kitchen sink, which in turn rested as a permanent fixture in a house on the other side of Brooklyn. Obtaining this cloth would have required a trip across town, which was simply too far for both his weak lungs and his pride to bear. The aforementioned pride is proof that a certain Steven Grant Rogers was _never_ one to back down from a fight (even if it was with a small mason jar of strawberry jam), so once he'd finished grumbling about how he should have packed the grip cloth when he moved, he lifted the jar off the counter and futilely grasped the smooth sides, yanking at the jar's lid one last time. The jam containment unit dug into the space between his ribs and below his sternum, one spindly hand trying to grasp the top of the jar (and continually sliding across the lid, losing what little grip might have been gained). The other palm attempted to keep the jar still, though instead it seemed he simply kept pushing the jar either painfully into his stomach or across his body and nearly smashing the jar (and his knuckles) into the side of the fridge that Steve had pressed his shoulder against in an attempt to gain leverage over the pesky lid, to no avail. Cursing loudly and earning a loud knock against the wall from his neighbor, Steve set the jar down onto his kitchen counter, throwing his head back and groaning. The sounds of his exasperation must have been louder than he intended, for he received yet another knock through the kitchen wall he shared with his next door neighbor.

Grumbling under his breath, Steve posed rhetorical questions to the empty room, “Why does he keep knocking? I wasn’t even that loud. He’d be groaning too if he was getting his ass kicked by a damned mason jar. Or she, can’t make assumptions. Say, I haven’t even met my neighbor, what right do they have to keep knocking on my wall? What if I were simply sleep talking? _They’d_ be in the wrong for disturbing my rest!” Steve looked around the room, and sighed halfheartedly in defeat-- why would he be sleep talking in his kitchen? He shook his head and glared at the jar resting on the stack of drawings, directing his questions-turned-rant at the inanimate object. “Speaking of disturbances, what gives you the right to prevent me from indulging in my ma’s homemade jam? You think you’re so tough, with your airtight lid and slippery sides-- I’ll show you! Steven Grant Rogers never goes down without a fight!” During his rant, Steve had raised a first over his head as a sign of future triumph over the jar, and proceeded to slam his fist on the counter next to the jar with a resounding thump.

Of course, this warranted a third wall-knock from his neighbor. Whispering now, Steve grumbled combatively, “Really? I oughta go over there and give them a reason to keep knocking on my wa--” He paused for a moment, remembering how loud, how solid the hit against the wall had sounded. Maybe this person was strong-- strong enough to open a jammed jam jar? He looked from the space in the wall where the sound originated, then back to the jar. He continued his rant, which had sparked an idea, “Wait a sec. I wonder if they have a grip cloth, or better yet, could just open this stubborn jar…” He trailed off; he could open the jar on his own! Looking down at his hands, reddened and scratched from the ridged metal lid, he thought, _Eh, maybe my hands need a break from all this twisting. If I keep it up, I won't be able to hold a pencil properly, and I have a portfolio to complete in a few days._ He continued, finally convincing himself that it was in his best interest to request backup, _Yeah, this isn't defeat, this is prioritizing a potential job over some jam jar. I'll go ask the neighbor, maybe introduce myself and tell them to stop knocking on the damned wall whenever I so much as breathe._

Shaking his head to expel the negativity of his last thought, Steve glanced down at his bare feet, and proceeded to scan the room for his slippers. He located one wedged between the back of the couch and the cushion, and the other on the coffee table. Questioning their placement, he was reminded of the art episode he had at two that same morning; he had been inspired by a dream and attempted to use the slippers as an art reference for a piece that Steve believed should have stayed in his head. Steve was hard on himself, but he also knew a promising piece of work when he saw or created one, and he could confidently say that piece looked like an eight year old's doodle on the side of their math homework. Shaking his head at how he even allowed himself to try and draw such an odd piece, he picked up his phone from its place next to the coffee table slipper and checked the time. It was now nine in the morning and given the knocking, he knew his neighbor was awake, so Steve grabbed the slipper on the coffee table and wrestled the other out of the couch, slid them on, and made the quick walk next door.

****  
  


***

 

Bucky adored his Sunday mornings. He limited going out to Friday nights, leaving all of Saturday to recover from any partying, one night stands, and drinking he may have done on the first evening of the weekend and allowing him to fully enjoy a relaxing Sunday before he went off to work bright and early Monday morning. Sundays were his mental health days, his media marathon days, his baking days. The peace of a quiet cup of coffee every Sunday morning was essential to his being, and his apartment was the perfect calm safe haven.

At least, it was until he got a new neighbor.

Usually Bucky didn’t mind the occasional disturbance in his routine; he was naturally laid-back and he was flexible with both his schedule and expectations. However, lately he found himself too often rubbing his temples in frustration, seated on a stool with his elbows on the kitchen counter, wishing for silence. The punk who moved in last month had inconsistent, though frequent, outbursts that _really_ rubbed Bucky the wrong way. The occasional outcry after stubbing a toe he could understand, but banging around at two in the morning and blabbing about why a slipper wasn't angled correctly did not bode well with him, nor did the soliloquies about which people Bucky’s new neighbor “had on the ropes” on any given day, and he definitely did not appreciate the spoilers he hears through the wall from the neighbors TV each night-- on several occasions Bucky has wanted to yell through the wall and tell the neighbor _hey, not all of us can watch the program on TV when it airs, so turn down the volume_ because Bucky went to bed at a more reasonable hour than his neighbor and treasured the aforementioned marathon Sundays. So when he hears the neighbor lecturing what sounds like a jar of jam, Bucky thinks he’s finally about to snap and begin yelling through the wall at his disruptive neighbor when he hears the lecture stop. _Finally_ , Bucky silently cheers, _Some peace and quiet!_ The low-volume environment is disrupted just moments after it arrives when Bucky hears a knock on his door.

Getting up from his slump on the barstool, Bucky went to the door and opened it wide enough to wedge himself between the edge of the door and its frame. A few feet in front of him stood a man he’d never seen before; Bucky wondered, _What does he want? I hope he's not here to convince me to convert to his religion or something._ Bucky was not a hulking figure, but he worked out consistently and was above average height, but he was no body builder-- that being said, compared to the mystery man, though, he might as well be Andre the Giant, for if Bucky were being generous, this man could have been no more than five and a half feet tall, and seemed to swim in a shirt that Bucky just _might_ have fit in during his freshman year of high school. Mystery man began wringing his hands, which were just as slim as the rest of the body to which they were attached. Bringing his attention to the man’s face, he noted the honey hair brushing pale skin; he noted the few freckles splashed across the man’s nose, and he especially noted the spark in his bright blue eyes. The color reminded him of the ocean, deep and wild, and Bucky found himself staring when the mystery man threw his arms up in surrender, and managed to catch the last half of what Bucky quickly gathered was another rant, similar to the ones he often heard through his kitchen wall courtesy of his loud mouth neighbor.

“...So yeah, I can’t open the darned jar. Do you think you could help?” The voice sounded familiar, but Bucky was more concerned with the way the man’s brow furrows, accompanied by a raised eyebrow and weak smile which told Bucky the guy wished he could open the jar, but refused to admit defeat to a canned good, so this unexpected visit was, in its simplest form, the mystery man calling in reinforcements to defeat the ultimate enemy: tightly sealed jars. His neighbor had been complaining about a jar just a few moments ago; it seemed a war was breaking out in his apartment complex against the evils of snug lids. _Unless_ , it dawned on Bucky, _This guy’s my punk of a neighbor._

Smirking, Bucky decides he’s going to have some fun with this situation.

“You know pal, me knocking on the wall repeatedly wasn’t an invitation for a personal visit,” he choked back a laugh at the blond man’s reaction. The face he made was caught somewhere between confusion and embarrassment.

A second later, Bucky saw his eyes spark up, calm waters turning to high tide, and the gears in his mind spinning, powering his wit up to spit back a snide remark, “Oh yeah, _pal?_  Well step out from the doorway and I’ll bang on you harder than you do the wall,” and then his hand flew to mouth, eyes wide, all color drained from his face, then a blush starting from his cheeks reached his ears and all snark gone from his expression. Muffled by his hand, the shorter neighbor rushed out the words, “Oh my goodness I’m so sorry that did not sound the way it did in my head!” and readjusted so he could cover his entire face with both hands.

Spreading his fingers apart, Steve looked at the taller, much stronger-looking man, fearing a punch. He hadn’t meant for his words to come off so sexually, and he was sure momentarily this larger man would introduce Steve to a new black eye-- that’s usually what Steve got in return for his audacious comments. Instead of hearing the sound of a fist connecting with his cheek, however, Steve was greeted with the bright, lively sound of his neighbor’s laughter. Removing his hands from his face, Steve stood and watched as the guy gasped for air between bouts of laughter. Relieved that his neighbor found his words funny rather than an excuse to beat up his mouthy neighbor, Steve began to giggle along; the chortling was infectious, and soon the two men found themselves doubled over and holding their respective sides. They laughed until the hilarity of Steve's words had run its course, and Steve hoped they could reintroduce themselves and start off on a positive foot, though the innuendo seemed to serve as a strong ice breaker. Regaining his composure, Steve stuck his right hand out to officially introduce himself, “Hello neighbor, my name’s Steve-The Ranting Neighbor-Rogers, and I need your help to open a jar of my ma’s homemade strawberry jam.”

Amused, the neighbor stuck out his hand in return, gave Steve’s a firm shake, and responded with faux formality, “Hi there Steve, my name is James-The Neighbor Searching for Quiet-Barnes, and I will do my best to fulfill your request for jar opening aid. Oh, and please call me Bucky, because I just lied to you: my middle name is not, in fact, “The Neighbor Searching for Quiet”, it’s Buchanan. Can I see the jar?”

Steve looked down at his empty left hand. _I forgot to bring the damned jar. Good going, Rogers._ With a light blush reaching his cheeks, Steve relayed this information to Bucky; luckily for Steve, his neighbor simply chuckled, and stepped out into the hall, shutting the door behind him. “Then what are we standing in the hall for? We have a jar to decapitate!” Externally Steve rolled his eyes at Bucky’s painful pun, but internally he was still rejoicing at how friendly and entertained Bucky had been regarding his unintentional sexual comment. He led the way (for the whopping ten steps it took) to his own apartment, opening and holding the door for Bucky as they moved out of the hallway. He watched as Bucky scanned his apartment, almost as though he were making sure there were no possible threats; the only menacing item in Steve’s apartment was the atrocious excuse for a slippers drawing, which he hoped Bucky hadn’t seen sticking out from the pile of papers on his counter, weighed down by the jam jar.

Seeing his guest relax, Steve took another step forward and closed the door so he could lean against it, one foot against the door in an attempt to look as cool and confident as possible, considering this man was in his apartment solely to open a jar. _Extremely attractive man is a stronger description,_ Steve thought, making himself blush lightly again. Addressing himself mentally, he thought, _C'mon Steve, no hitting on the reinforcements, you'll make an ass of yourself and then next time you'll have to walk all the way to ma's house to get the jar grip cloth. Relax._ Continuing to watch Bucky, Steve considered his last thought; _I don’t know anyone in the building-- maybe I could get to know this guy. He seems nice enough, and didn’t punch me when I said,_ Steve felt his cheeks turn from the pink blush caused by Steve's mind lingering on Bucky's good looks to an unmistakable maroon at the reminder of his recent innuendo. _Well, when I said something I didn’t mean to. Ah, but look at him, all tall, dark, and handsome; someone like him doesn’t have time for someone like me._ While they were standing in the hall in front of his neighbor’s door, Steve had been too intent on opening his jar (and later too mortified by his unintentional innuendo) to truly take in Bucky’s features.

Pushing away his own self-deprecating thought and wishing the blush away, he instead noted his neighbor’s nearly shoulder-length brown hair (which still showed signs of bed head); Steve wondered if Bucky ever put his hair up in a ponytail. _Steven Grant Rogers,_ he lectured himself, _You better hope he doesn't because no matter how much you try to deny it you have a thing for men with their hair up._ His gaze continued lower down Bucky’s body allowing Steve to take in the worn dark blue long sleeve shirt Bucky sported, snug enough to hug his obviously toned upper body, which Steve _greatly_ appreciated. Feeling the light blush returning to his cheeks and now reaching the tips of his ears, his eyes continued their travels a bit lower, taking in paw print pajama bottoms and teddy bear slippers. _Seriously?_ Steve thought, smiling smugly to himself. _I may not be as… sturdy as this guy, but I can still give him a hard time for this. I bet he didn’t realize he left his apartment wearing those ridiculous-- shoes? Slippers?_ Steve let out a snort when his mind wandered to images of Bucky walking down the street in his bear slippers, allowing Steve's blush to recede and causing Bucky to turn around.

Noting the amused smirk resting on Steve’s face, Bucky demanded, “What’s so funny? 'S there somethin' on my face?”

Letting out a quick laugh, Steve responded with two words:

“Bucky Bear.”

He mentally patted himself on the back, awaiting his dark haired neighbor’s response, hoping it would result in laughter as their conversation in the hall had.

Cocking his head to one side and furrowing his brow in slight confusion, obviously taken aback but obviously just as equally amused, Bucky pressed, “I’m sorry, what did you call me?”

Now fully grinning, Steve pointed at Bucky’s pants and slippers. “Your pajamas, they’re bears, so you’re now Bucky Bear. Congrats.” Steve watched Bucky open and close his mouth a few times _\--What a great goldfish impression he has-_ \- trying to think of a response before Steve pushed his leg off the door, walked over to the kitchen counter, grabbed the godforsaken jar, and handed it to Bucky. Switching the subject from Bucky’s outfit choice, Steve stated, “Thanks in advance,” before he took a step back to watch Bucky struggle with the jar.

At least, Steve thought he would be watching his neighbor grapple with the slick sides and the seemingly cemented cap. Instead, Bucky rolled up his left sleeve to reveal something shiny and _holy shit was his arm made from metal did I invite a cyborg into my home this is the end someone tell my ma I love her--_

*Pop*

Pop?

“Here you go,” Bucky gave a small smile, metal arm outstretched to hand over the jar to Steve, but the smaller neighbor’s focus was solely dedicated to the inorganic limb.

Steve couldn’t help it; his eyes were locked on the metal appendage and he was doing nothing to avert (or at least hide) his gaze when he heard a voice ask, “Wanna touch it?”

“Yes.” The words were barely out of Bucky’s mouth before Steve answered eagerly. Thinking of his ma, Steve’s mind raced, _Sarah Rogers may have raised a firecracker but if I am nothing I am at least polite,_ so Steve tacked on a quick, “Please,” before shamelessly raising his hands from his sides and made grabbing motions at Bucky's shiniest limb.

Bucky was amused; raising both an eyebrow and a glinting hand, he allowed his new neighbor’s fingers to brush along his forearm. Steve’s eyes were glued to the intricately constructed metal arm, noting the interlocking plates and how cool they were to the touch. Satisfied, Steve retracted his hand; he knew this arm would inevitably be the topic of his next drawing-- _maybe Bucky would model for me,_ Steve thought wishfully before giving a small, “Thanks, and sorry for gawking. Guess I just didn’t notice it earlier; for an artist I’m clearly not that observant when distraught by jam jars. It’s really cool, both aesthetically and temperature-wise--” pausing, he looked at the open jar gripped by cold metal fingers and immediately switched topics, still trying to register that, _Yes, the jar was no longer glued to its lid,_ he urgently inquired, “Wait, did you actually get the jar opened?”

Looking embarrassed and shifting his gaze from Steve’s face to his feet, Bucky responded with a simple, “Uh, yeah.” Steve watched as Bucky glanced back down at his arm, hurriedly pulling his sleeve back down to the point where it was halfway over his hand, only leaving finders exposed, he took a small step towards the door and continued, “The metal arm is pretty strong, it freaks a lot of people out. Truthfully, I’m pretty glad you’re not backing away in horror, so thanks for that.” Suddenly timid, Bucky hastily informed Steve, “I’ll be on my way now, always happy to help a neighbor.” Steve could tell the attention to Bucky’s arm made his neighbor uncomfortable, and Steve really didn’t want someone who would hopefully become his friend to leave so soon, especially if he were exiting due to uncomfortable interactions. So, Steve did what any grateful citizen would do, and offered food.

“Actually, now that this jar is open, can I say thanks by making you breakfast?” Holding up the jar, Steve continued, “This stuff’s great on just about anything--toast, pancakes, waffles, you name it.”   _Ah shit, what if he thinks I’m hitting on him? Things are already weird because I couldn’t keep my hands to myself, my ma would be disappointed in my lack of kindergarten skills._ Steve looked at Bucky, trying to read his facial expressions so he could brace for what would he believed would inevitably be rejection-- that’s usually how it went for Steve when he tried to make friends. But damn, he really wanted to redeem his awkward arm interactions, and what if he couldn’t open a jar again sometime in the future? He really needed Bucky to be his friend so that, if anything, Steve could ask for his help opening stubborn containers, so before Bucky could open his mouth to answer Steve added, “Unless you’ve already eaten, in which case, I also have coffee, if you want. Maybe?” This final ‘maybe’ was said with Steve giving his friendliest (and most desperate) grin in hopes that he’d convinced Bucky to join him.

****  
  



	2. Pancake Pals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Steve vs. asthma, pancakes, whipped cream, and their respective best pals. Still no Clint, sorry-- but to make up for that, I scattered various bird/cap puns and references throughout this chapter, so brownie points to those who catch them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my pal for editing, even though she was busy moving into COLLEGEEEEEEEEEE
> 
> Speaking of college, my school year is starting up, so chapter postings will most likely slow down to every other week, so please bear with me! Comments are appreciated :)

The grin seemed to do the trick, and he saw Bucky’s tense shoulders relax, similarly to when Bucky initially finished scanning Steve’s apartment. Soon, a nonchalant "sure" exited Bucky's lips, and the pair proceeded to scrounge around Steve's pantry, locating the ingredients for pancakes. Neither man was sure of what to say, so the measuring and mixing of ingredients passed by in silence, the occasional awkward smile or brush of hands when passing the whisk or pouring the contents of the bowl onto the griddle (a housewarming gift from the lovely Sarah Rogers). Steve could tell Bucky was not fully at ease; he was being careful to only use his right arm to pass the pancake materials along to Steve, noticeably trying to conceal as much of his metal arm as possible, for he couldn’t allow himself to believe his neighbor was truly unfazed by its existence. _He probably acted interested in it out of pity, Bucky thought grimly, He’s only having me over for breakfast to be polite, then as soon’s I’m out the door, the lock’ll click and he won’t make eye contact with me again, same as everyone else ‘sides Nat, and even then I know my arm sometimes makes her nervous._

He looked up to see Steve watching him with a raised eyebrow. Worry-- or was it concern?-- was written between the lines of his brow before he asked, “You doin’ okay? If it’s hunger that’s got you down, the second batch of pancakes is just about ready if you wanna make yourself comfortable and bring over the first batch,” Steve waved the hand not flipping pancakes in the general direction of the first plate of pancakes next to him, then waved at the kitchen counter where Bucky had set forks and plates out for the pair mere minutes ago. Giving Steve a slight nod, he moved back from their makeshift pancake station and plopped down into one of the barstools. He sat quietly, subconsciously pulling his sleeve to stretch over his metal hand, counting the tiles adorning the counter when the previously delicious smell of bubbling pancake batter turned bitter. Lifting his gaze from the tiles, he saw grey matter spiraling up from what were once pancakes in front of a dishtowel flailing Steve. Leaping from his perch on the stool, Bucky rushed--as much as one can rush across a room that’s only five feet wide--to Steve’s side, shouldered the lighter man out of the kitchen fire’s reach, grabbing the dishtowel in the process, unplugged the griddle, and smothered the fire. After he ensured that the griddle wouldn’t flare up again of it’s own accord, he took to waving smoke out of his eyes. Bucky stepped back and turned to make a joke when he was greeted with a crouched Steve--he knew the symptoms of an asthma attack. Springing into action a second time, Bucky knelt beside his clearly weak-lunged neighbor, rubbing his back. “Okay Steve, you’ve gotta bring your chest up more, alright pal?” Using his hands to reposition his curling body to a form that would allow maximum air flow, Bucky gently pulled Steve’s shoulders back and tilted the blond’s head up. “That’s better, that’s better-- do you have an inhaler? Point to where it is so I can go grab it for you--keep your chest open, alright? Gotta let the air into those lungs.”

Steve pointed next to the jar on the counter to his inhaler, leaving Bucky to lunge and swipe it off the counter with new instructions. “Breathe with me now, got it? In through the nose, out through the mouth like you’re blowing out candles, hold the stronger intakes, I know you can. In, out, in, out…” They breathed together as such for a few moments until Bucky felt Steve could handle a burst from his inhaler. Still rubbing his back, Bucky listened intently to Steve’s breaths, making sure they were only improving with each inhale and exhale. Finally confident that Steve was no longer being suffocated by the smoke and his own slight body, Bucky stood and held a hand out to his nearly regularly breathing companion, hoisting him onto his feet and steadying him with his human hand on the other man’s elbow. He went to lead the chronically wheezing man to a barstool, still rubbing his back with the metal arm when Steve panted, “It’s okay Buck, I got my own legs,” though it seemed he spoke too soon, for with that comment Steve stumbled and instinctively grabbed the arm adjacent to his elbow.

Steve clearly had enough airflow in and out of his body to get back to his characteristic grumbling, for when Bucky gave him a look of pure concern, Steve managed to mutter, “goddamned lungs don’t even let me stand up straight, can’t even do that on my own,” at which Bucky’s heart dropped. He couldn’t imagine going through life knowing that standing near a flame for too long might leave him incapacitated, or not being steady on his feet after working hard to catch his breath. _My metal arm might be a reminder of a past war, but at least I’m not constantly at war with my own body._ The last thing Bucky wanted to do was make Steve feel like he was powerless in this situation, so he let loose his grip on Steve’s elbow, stopped rubbing his back, and instead slung his non-metal arm around Steve’s shoulders in a way that made Steve feel less like he was using Bucky as a crutch while still allowing Bucky the security of knowing he could catch Steve if he stumbled again on his way to the chair. _Better not get used to this, Barnes; remember, friends first. Does feel nice though, almost snug enough to be a hug, if you look past the weakened body and possible apartment fire causing this position._

Once Steve reached the chair and settled atop it, he looked to Bucky, a softer expression resting on his face. “You didn’t hafta do that,” Steve said, shifting under Bucky’s still-concerned gaze, “But I’m glad ya did. Thanks.” He looked down, similarly to Bucky’s position at the counter prior to the fire.

Bucky returned his arm to its previous place around Steve’s shoulders, giving them a quick squeeze, mentally chanting, _Don’t linger don’t linger don’t linger don’t linger,_ and said, “Anytime pal. Like I said, always happy to help a neighbor.”

This warranted a small smile from Steve, who shoved the plate of unscathed pancakes towards Bucky. “let’s put this jam to good use, how’s that sound? ‘M breathing easy enough to eat now, and I want you to taste why opening that jar was so important.” Feeling the severity of the situation ease, the pair smiled at each other and Bucky reached for a couple of starter pancakes.

_Steve was right; this jam is fantastic. I’m glad I helped him open it, I am so benefiting from this situation._ Bucky watched as Steve used his fork to paint lines of strawberry jam into a face upon his pancake. Delicate hands turned his utensil into a brush, slender fingers turned into an eraser whenever he wiped away an errant stroke of strawberry paint; Bucky’s breathing definitely did not catch in his throat when Steve licked the organic eraser shavings off his finger. _How nice would that pretty mouth look licking something else, those fingers pulling hair..._ He watched Steve’s facial expressions fall into a frown while trying to exact what appeared to be an eyebrow. Observing this creative process, Bucky saw long hair framing the face of the pancake, with little crow’s feet made of strawberry strands on the corner of the jam eyes, a goopy grin, and an L nose. He pushed the plate towards Bucky in a more lively manner than he had the original stack of pancakes and set to work on a second pancake portrait. This second face had similar features, aside from the much shorter hair and wider eyes; he kept the second plate in front of himself. Presenting his two plates worth of work with joking jazz hands, Steve announced, “Pancake Pals!”

Bucky grinned widely, looking down at his pancake reflection and joked, “Looks jus’ like me, Steve. Actually, I think he’s better lookin’, thanks for painting my good side!” while he and Bucky laughed a bit and proceeded to dig in, Steve wanted to protest, _You’re the best looking thing I’ve seen in a while, and every side of you’s better than good,_ but he decided he wanted his pancake to remain on his plate and not shoved in his face in retaliation to such comments, so he kept them to himself, and only shared his pancake self-portrait and not his thoughts.

After they both finished their first pancakes, Bucky countered, “Alright, now it’s my turn. First the ears…” Bucky scooped jam onto the edible blank canvas on his plate and smoothed two semicircles, “...Then the eyes and mouth…and then the nose!” While the eyes and mouth were simple circles and lines, the nose was a large glob on the center of the pancake’s surface with what looked like slight whiskers coming out from the left and right sides. Mimicking Steve’s presentation, Bucky declared, “Behold, Breakfast Bucky Bear!” sending the pair into another fit of laughs. The namesake created a twin for the first BBB and the two ate again, ribbing each other about their respective artistic skills (or lack thereof) with the medium of pancakes. Halfway through the demolition of his edition of the Breakfast Bucky Bear, Steve left the counter without excusing himself--an action Sarah Rogers must have been cringing at in the distance--and opened the fridge, fishing around for an additional topping. “What’re you lookin’ for there, Steve?” Bucky inquired; the jam and syrup were both already out on the counter, what more did the pair need? Steve shut the fridge door halfway to briefly shrug at Bucky before he went back to digging through what seemed like Arctic depths until he resurfaced with a spray can of whipped cream. Removing the lid, he tilted the can upside down to spray some of the whipped cream into his own mouth _\-- Gotta enjoy the little luxuries of no longer living with my ma--_ before aiming the can at Bucky.

“Want some?” Steve asked, holding the can out. Nodding, Bucky reached out to grab the can from Steve’s grasp when Steve denied, “Ha, nope. Open says-a-me!” Pointing at Bucky’s mouth. Spraying a small amount in his neighbor’s mouth, Steve caused the can’s spout to take a detour left, up, and diagonally to create a quick arc of fluffy cream across Bucky’s cheeks and nose. Batting away the can, Bucky swallowed the contents of his mouth before wiping the impromptu whipped cream facial into the palm of his hand to return the favor to Steve, managing to catch the shorter man laughing so he could smear the contents of his hand across the blonde’s nose and up its bridge onto the middle of Steve’s forehead. To this Steve responded with faux-indignation, one hand over his heart and the other wiping away the topping, giving Bucky a scandalized glare. Beneath that glare was laughter waiting to erupt, and when it did, Steve was left gasping for air for a much more positive reason than he had prior to breakfast. The sound was contagious, causing the pair to fall into a fit of giggles, with these bouts of laughter continuing sporadically throughout the morning until Bucky found himself standing just outside of Steve’s apartment door, thanking him for a hilariously eventful morning.

“I should really be thanking you,” Steve countered, “Without you, I would probably still be leaned against the fridge trying to release the jam from its jar prison, and then I wouldn’t have gotten to eat pancakes before the sun set,” _and I wouldn’t have met you,_ “so essentially, you saved the day.” The pair smiled at each other for a moment until Bucky hinted, “My weekday mornings are too hectic, but maybe I could save the day next Sunday too?” Not wanting to sound desperate, Bucky added jokingly, “Unless you’re going to invite your other neighbor to breakfast, but I bet they can’t open jars like I can.” Steve’s smile said it all, and just like that they were lined up for another breakfast hangout the following weekend.

***

That evening both men were in their respective apartments at their respective counters seated next to their respective best friends; Steve roosted next to his buddy Sam. A bird enthusiast, Steve had taken to calling him Falcon for the various Peregrine falcon photos he rotated through as both his desktop and phone backgrounds. However, his fascination was the end of all similarities drawn between Sam and birds, for he was not slight in frame nor small in size, and he could not whistle to save his or Steve’s life. The pair discussed the events of their weeks. Sam had met someone who also had a bird-inspired nickname (Sam had rhetorically asked Steve, “How do you get the nickname Hawkeye anyways?” to which Steve could only caw), while Steve explained his most recent altercation and that yes, he did need to punch the guy walking past him on the street when the guy had catcalled a woman across the road and no, telling him it was rude simply would not have worked. Steve also let slip that he had an asthma attack that morning. Sam nearly had a bird when Steve told him he didn’t have his inhaler on his person for immediate access, so he tried to convince Sam that really, he was fine, by telling him of Bucky’s aid in the situation.

“Sam, I’m telling you, I’m fine, my neighbor was over and grabbed the inhaler for me. Jeez man, it was only on the counter, I would’ve been fine alone,” Steve continued, “Besides, it’s not like I’ve never been alone and had an attack before, I’m alri-”

Before he could finish, Sam flew in demanding, “What the hell Steve? Why didn’t you start out with that? Here I am, worrying that your dumb ass coulda suffocated on your own lungs ALONE in your apartment when someone was there the whole time! Jesus, you know how to scare a guy.” Sam paused, Bucky’s early presence in Steve’s apartment only just settling in and continued, “Wait, why was your neighbor here for breakfast?” A sly smirk reaching the corners of Sam’s mouth, and with eyebrows wiggling suggestively he pried, “Steven Grant Rogers, what did you get up to last night and with whom?”

Steve groaned and rolled his eyes. _If only Bucky had spent the night._ “It’s not like that. I needed help opening a jar, but when I knocked on his door to ask for help, I had left the jar on my counter. Simple as that. Like the stellar neighbor I am, I offered him breakfast for helping me. Get your mind out of the gutter, Wilson.” Sam flipped Steve the bird, and accompanied by mutual smirks, the pair went back to discussing the more mild events of their weeks.

Next door, Bucky sat on the couch with his feet in Natasha’s lap, chatting about breakfast food-- the pair had made eggs and bacon for supper in Bucky’s apartment that evening, and were relaxing after having cleaned up the bacon greased dishes.

“Two breakfasts a day sure is a great way to live,” Bucky rambled, “Say, what did you have for breakfast this morning? It’s the most important meal--today, meals--of the day!” Bucky, ever conscious, had both hands behind his head. It looked as though he were propping his head up, but in reality, it was a casual way to keep the metal of his hand out of sight. Natasha rolled her eyes and said flatly, “Buck, I had the same thing I do every morning: oatmeal and fruit. Haven’t changed my routine in years. But, knowing you, you only asked me so I’d ask back, you lump. So, what spectacular meal did you have this morning that you couldn’t tell me of your own accord?” She turned to watch his response.

“Well Nat, since you’re obviously so interested, I’ll tell you.”

“Don’t be a shit, Barnes.” Her words held no venom.

Bucky continued, clearing his throat dramatically, “I know you’re excited, but if you wait a moment I’ll get there,” he took an equally dramatic breath before saying, “I had spectacular pancakes this morning with a side of smoked neighbor.” He had been waiting all day to use that joke. _Though,_ he thought, _Smoking hot neighbor might be more accurate._ Sighing internally, he nudged Natasha with his foot and waited for her reaction.

He thought he saw a flash of amusement on her face before she said in the same flat tone, “That’s all you’ve got?”

His human hand flew to his chest in mock agony, “Oh, you wound me. Aren’t you gonna ask why the neighbor was smoked?”

Closing her eyes as if to ask why she was still allowing the conversation to continue she took the bait and responded, “Fine. Tell me, James, why was your neighbor smoked?”

“Because he almost set his kitchen on fire. He did scorch some pancakes pretty good, left them on the griddle too long and they turned as dense as manhole covers.”

Natasha squinted at him. “For one, why wasn’t he watching his pancakes and for two, why were you in his apartment? Did you smell fire and come running to put it out?” A smirk grew on her face and one eyebrow quirked, “Or, Mr. Barnes, were you already there? Say, from the overnight?” It was Bucky’s turn to roll his eyes.

“It’s not like that, Nat.” _Not yet. Friends first._ “I helped him open a jar, because this guy’s full of fight but might lose an arm wrestling match to an actual toothpick, so he invited me to stay for breakfast and try the jam from the jar I opened. It was a good trade-off, minus the fire and the fact that the smoke caused him to have an asthma attack.” Shrugging with his hands still behind his head, he smiled. “The first batch of pancakes turned out damned-near flawless, and that jam, _strawberry jam_ , was nearly to-die for. You woulda loved it. He even asked if I wanted pancakes again next Sunday,” he considered his last sentence and added when Natasha’s eyes widened in concern, “But I’ll probably keep a closer eye on the griddle to avoid more fire.”

Natasha nodded in approval, but not letting the topic of Steve drop so easily. “Well, if you’re going to have a recurring role saving this guy’s life, can you at least tell me about him? I need to know who to take care of--and not in the endearing sense--when you get your ass burned to a crisp while staring at him instead of watching that griddle full of pancakes.” She waited a moment as Bucky pouted and continued, “Spill, Barnes. Now.” With that, Bucky tried to describe Steve’s features and personality traits as accurately as possible without giving away the attraction Natasha undoubtedly sensed he had to his neighbor.

“He’s damned fiery; I’ve never seen so much spunk in such a small body. Seriously Nat, he’s just about five foot nothin’, but he still’d make these smartass remarks without even worryin’ about whether I’d think they’re funny. Oh, goin’ off that, his mouth seems to move too fast for his brain,” He told her about the initial innuendo. While Natasha laughed, he went on and said, “Yeah, you think that was funny? Listen to this-- he also grabbed a can of whipped cream, and aimed it at my face! The nerve of that guy! He’s hilarious, you’d really like him Nat. As long as you didn’t break him; he seems kinda fragile.” At that comment, Natasha had all the information she wanted, ending the discussion of Steve and reverted back to prodding about the flaming pancakes and the lack of supervision by their creators.


	3. The Breakfast Club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter only features Bucky and Steve (which makes sense, seeing as it is a Stucky fic). The slippers drawing returns, and Bucky comes to terms with his feelings for an oblivious Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy y'all! Sorry for the wait; I know I'm a couple of days past my predicted every-other-week posting time, but college has been very busy (and fun!). I hope y'all enjoy the chapter; comments and kudos are always loved!

 

Joking and laughing while Steve measured ingredients and Bucky mixed the batter, Steve had discovered by their fourth pancake breakfast, for it was swiftly becoming a part of their Sunday routines, that Bucky worked at the nearby docks, loading and fixing the boats and equipment; it explained Bucky's strong figure. Steve told Bucky about his seemingly never ending search for a job to kickstart a career in graphic design; for now, he worked as a freelance artist: sketching portraits, caricatures, landscapes, and anything potential clients requested. For both, their work was enough to make ends meet, though what extra money Bucky spent on going out, Steve spent on new pencils and occasionally a new sketchbook for personal drawings.

Steve’s trade of choice intrigued Bucky, so the dock worker finally worked up the nerve, _after a month of weekly breakfasts, what took the man so long,_ to request examples of the artist’s work. Pleasantly surprised at Bucky’s interest, Steve briefly turned away from the pancakes he was in charge of flipping and pointed to the stack of papers on the counter, under the freshly opened jar (courtesy again of Bucky, though this time it held raspberry jam). He turned back to the pancakes and had just finished putting the first batch onto a plate beside the griddle when he heard Bucky guffaw at one of his pieces. _What the hell was that for?_ Steve questioned, a bit offended that his neighbor merely wanted to see his work to get a good laugh. Steve turned around to tell Bucky off when he saw which drawing Bucky had set back down on the counter, clutching the back of the chair he stood beside, still laughing. The page Bucky had set down was covered in several sorry excuses for slipper sketches.

_Shit. I don’t blame him for laughing._

Feelings of irritation were swiftly replaced with an immediate need to remove such visual horrors from his neighbor’s sight. Steve leaped into action, lunging at the counter, spatula still in hand, and snatched it off the counter, throwing the page on the ground by his feet so Bucky couldn't analyze the work any further. Steve moved back to the griddle and grabbed the first plate of pancakes, choosing to pretend Bucky never saw his slippers sketch. Of course, when he was about to take the last step to the side of the counter Bucky was now sitting at--he had taken a seat to catch his breath, lost to laughter-- Steve knew he would've been better off if he had drawn banana peels instead of slippers because with that step, Steve slid on his drawing and comically stumbled forward, the plate of pancakes clanging loudly (but miraculously still intact), landing on the counter in front of Bucky. Steve was not as lucky as the pancakes. Instead of gaining his balance by grabbing the edge of the counter, Steve had regained his balance by reaching out and blindly hoping the chair would catch his fall. However, a quick squeeze of both hands against what he ended up blinding grasping showed Steve something softer. Upon opening his eyes, Steve discovered he was nowhere near the back of the chair. He was, instead, very close to dark strands of hair and hands clutching strong thighs-- _Bucky’s strong thighs._ Steve internally panicked while trying to put on a casual facade that was definitely not mortified nor tense. _Shitshitshitshitshitshit._

It took both men a few moments to address the position at hand--or at hands-- and Bucky was the first to speak, “Uh, hi Steve. Have a nice trip?” Bucky smirked at his joke, trying to push aside the thoughts of _Wow hi Steve's lips you're looking quite kissable today, please come closer;_ Bucky restrained himself from closing the gap: hadn't even established if Steve swung his way _\-- though he certainly did fall--_ and Bucky liked this punk enough that he wanted to remain at least his friend. _So yeah, don't invade his face space quite yet James Buchanan. You can still crack some jokes, though._ Smugly Bucky teased, “You've only known me for what, a month and you've already fallen for me? I'm flattered!”

With the second joke Steve’s face flushed and he scoffed, countering the tease with, “Ha, in your dreams Buck; you're no young Leo DiCaprio, pal. I am quite the _catch_ though.” They both laughed and Steve pushed off of Bucky's thighs, making his way back to the griddle to start the second batch of pancakes while Bucky rose from his seat to locate plates, forks, syrup, and the open jam jar.

“Hey Steve-o, where do you keep the silverware? I already found the plates,” Bucky set down the plates, side by side at the counter, then walked next to Steve and continued to search through drawers until Steve pointed to a drawer next to the sink with his spatula. “Ah, found 'em, thanks Stevester,” He moved back to the seat he previously occupied at the counter, rolling his eyes at himself, criticizing his attempted nickname, _Stevester? Really? I've known him for only a month, gotta stop trying so hard. Just enjoy breakfast with this guy, don't force friendship, because he made it clear he's not interested in me... But maybe he does dig dudes?That's what his words sounded like. Hope he does..._ Bucky was drawn out of thought with fingers snapping six inches away from his nose.

“Bucky? Buck? Barnes? You in there? The pancakes are done, just waiting for some syrup to heat up a bit,” Steve had obviously been trying to get his attention, but his attention was too focused on... the idea of Steve, he guessed, to focus on the real one. _The real one's much better though, I get to look at him and that's gonna become a good pastime._ Bucky shook his head and pulled his head down from the clouds, “Yeah, I'm in here Stevie,” _Stevie!_ He took in Steve’s last few words; their meaning appalled him. “Wait, you heat your syrup? You heathen! Syrup's how you cool down the pancakes down to eat them sooner!” Throwing his arms up in faux-distress, “I can't be neighbors with someone that likes HOT syrup!” He slumped over the counter, pretending to be tormented by the idea.

Steve wasn't buying into Bucky’s ‘suffering’; he believed too strongly in warm syrup adding another level of taste-glory to the already delicious dish, so he retorted with, “Oh, I'm the heathen? Have you even TRIED syrup warmed up?” Steve crossed his arms across his chest and leaned one hip against the counter, facing a seated Bucky.

Putting on his best pouting face, Bucky whined, “Nuh-uh, and I'm not gonna either! You can't make meeeeeee, I'll tell my ma on you!” He buried his head in his arms again, an obvious (and childish) protest against the warm syrup.

But Steven Grant Rogers doesn't back down from a fight. Moving towards the microwave and grabbing the warm syrup, Steve took a spoon, dipped it in the syrup, and held it out in front of his slumped companion. “Buck. Look at me.” Bucky raised his head, nose scrunching up in overly-dramatized disgust at the spoon. “Open,” Steve ordered, moving the syrup towards Bucky's lips.

In the same childish manner as before Bucky opposed, “You're not the boss of me!” sealing his lips tightly and shook his head. Steve moved the spoon closer, so that it was only a couple of inches away from Bucky's mouth. Bucky furrowed his eyebrows, “Stevie I don--” and as soon as Bucky opened his mouth to continue his protest, Steve shoved the spoon forward and dumped its contents onto his neighbor's tongue. Steve prepared for more whining, but instead Bucky slouched backwards, low into his seat with his head thrown back in... Pleasure? Moaning in a way that his _other_ neighbors may consider sinful and make them question the events of their friendly breakfasts, Bucky breathed, “Oh my gosh Stevie give me more,” Steve laughed, rolled his eyes, and ignored the butterflies in his stomach caused by Bucky’s sensual, needy voice as he scooped more of the amber liquid into the spoon and in turn into Bucky's open mouth. _Wouldn’t it be nice if I just made him sound like that, without syrup?_  His self-pitying thoughts were interrupted with another moan, causing a shiver to run up his spine. “Stevie _yes_ I've been enlightened thank you for moving in next door you beautiful, tasteful man!” This time, it was Bucky's head that shot up, eyes widening as he realized what his words sounded like out of context, apologizing, Bucky rushed out, “Ah shit Steve that sounded wrong I mean you’re cute and all but I really just meant the syrup tasted so damned good and I'm grateful you made me try it please don't think I'm a total creep,” Bucky paused to inhale. Before he could continue apologizing, Steve cut him off— with another spoonful of syrup.

“I'm not mad Bucky, that was the funniest reaction I've seen to someone trying warm syrup. Put the jam on your pancakes first, then the syrup, and then your breath will really be taken away,” _Did Bucky just called me cute?_ Steve smiled and used Bucky's fork to grab a couple of pancakes off the first plate, heart fluttering quickly enough that he wondered if he’d need to use his inhaler before eating.

 

***

The intensity of that moment lurked in the back of Bucky’s mind for the next week; had there been a spark, or was it just the heat of the syrup that had warmed Steve’s face to a blush? _One thing was sure after that moment,_ Bucky thought to himself as he washed his face before heading over to Steve’s apartment the following Sunday, _I’ve fallen too far for him to keep pretending I just want to be his friend, I’ve gotta stay true to myself and honest with Stevie._ Sighing while he patted his face dry with a hand towel, Bucky decided that morning would be the morning. He would ask Steve out to supper for that evening, _after I find out if he even likes men. Curse the “straight until proven not” clause that society has implemented._ After throwing on a plain black shirt to match his black and white checkered pajama pants, Bucky gathered his phone and keys, slid on his slippers (dubbed “Bucky Bear” slippers by Steve during their first encounter), and headed out the door to Steve’s apartment for their fifth pancake breakfast.

At this point Bucky no longer knocked on the door to ask for entry; Steve now unlocked it when he first woke up so Bucky could slip in and prepare coffee while Steve washed the sleepiness from his figure with a quick shower. This start to their breakfast had come about the second time they met for breakfast; Steve had been in the shower when Bucky knocked on the door for pancakes, so wrapped in a towel he granted Bucky entrance, to which Bucky definitely was not hoping the towel would fall off spontaneously. Seeing there was still shampoo suds lingering in Steve’s hair, Bucky first tried to keep his mind from wandering to blush-worthy thoughts, then suggested that he make coffee while Steve finished his shower. The next week Bucky found the door already unlocked, and without a word Bucky made coffee again while Steve showered. Steve must have anticipated this, for when he entered the kitchen reading something on his phone, he didn’t even look up to see if his neighbor was there before he greeted him with, “Hey Bucky. What kind of coffee did you make today?” Confirming that Steve had expected Bucky to admit himself into the apartment and get their morning beverage prepared; Bucky couldn’t help his stomach from flipping at the domesticity of the moment, making Bucky’s initial schoolboy crush turn into a stronger desire-- one he couldn’t ignore.

When Bucky entered this morning, however, he was not greeted with the familiar sound of the shower head running. Instead, he was greeted with the smell of freshly brewed coffee, and when he turned the corner into the kitchen, he was greeted again-- this time with a smiling Steve stirring a mug of coffee, and a second one already placed in front of Bucky’s usual spot at the kitchen counter. “I woke up a bit early today, couldn’t fall back asleep, so I decided I’d mix things up and make you coffee this morning,” Steve said, looking hopeful, “I hope you don’t mind the change in routine.”

Bucky could only grin at that statement. _Of course I don’t mind, I don’t mind anything about you or anything you do._ “Thanks Stevie; did you put sugar in the coffee yet?”

Steve’s smile faltered, “Not yet; I didn’t remember what ratio of cream and sugar you liked, so I left them out for you to do. If you tell me what you like, I can do it for next time--” Bucky cut him off.

“That’s alright Stevie, you’re sweet enough as it is.” Bucky’s grin gained a mischievous undertone; he was pleased with the compliment he had set up, and decided that he would drop hints at his feelings until Steve caught on and responded to them, hopefully by returning his affections.

Steve on the other hand did not catch the flirtation at all; his immediate thoughts in response were, _Sweet? I forgot to sweeten his coffee, how is that sweet? Bucky’s too kind to me, I don’t understand why he doesn’t have a person in his life to wake up to each morning. Too bad I can’t be that person; someone as perfectly built and mannered as him would never date someone as scrawny and impulsive as me._ He ignored his internal dejection, though his response of “Yeah right” still held a melancholy inflection as he pushed the sugar bowl and cream carton towards Bucky’s position in his kitchen.

Bucky was too lost in thought to notice the change in Steve’s tone. _How do I ask someone if they like guys? “Hi Steve, I’m wildly attracted to you, and I was wondering if you happened to like dicks, so it would be great if you cleared that up” does not sound like the best approach._ Bucky settled on asking Steve if he was seeing any women, and if he said no, he’d ask if he was seeing any men. _No harm in being open minded, right?_ Bucky hoped as he started to speak, hoping his words seemed casual and not at all desperate for a certain answer, “Hey Stevie, are you seeing any women? I bet they’d love your pancakes.” _Smooth, Barnes. Clint would be proud._

Responding with a snort, Steve bit back, “Yeah, like any women are interested in me.” The bitterness in Steve’s voice thoroughly confused Bucky. _Sure, he’s a bit on the slimmer side, but a woman could get lost in his oceanic eyes. I should start wearing a life vest to prevent myself from drowning in them._ Bucky decided, given Steve’s irritated response, not to comment, and instead moved on to his second question on the topic.

“Alright, are you seeing any men?” Seeing Steve’s eyes narrow at the question, Bucky’s heart began to race. _Shit, he’s a bigot, this isn’t good, shitshitshitshit--_

“Why, do you have a problem with men liking men? If you do, you can leave my apartment now because I’ll have you know I am _proudly_ bisexual and if you don’t know what that means I suggest you go find a dictionary and beat yourself over the head with it before I do it for you.” Flushed at the end of his rant, Steve remained tensed up until he saw Bucky’s hand fly up to his chest as he let out a sigh of relief.

“Phew! The way your eyes narrowed really got me nervous, I thought you were gonna be all offended I even asked. There’s not way in hell I have a problem with men liking men, seeing as I am a man that is very, very interested in other males. Glad that’s cleared up.”

The two men sat in silence for a moment before moving on without mention of their previous conversation; a need for pancakes overrode any further need for sexuality clarifications.

 

 


	4. A Change in Meal Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we see Steve and Bucky share yet another pancake breakfast, and they go out for supper. Miscommunication ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY THIS TOOK ME SO LONG TO FINISH. Things got crazy busy at school-- that's what I get for taking four writing classes at once. Oh, college woes. Anyways, I tried to make this one a little extra long to make up for lost time, and I'm going to get back to my every-other week posting routine. Thanks as always to my lovely best pal, you saved me from some embarrassing typos. Comments, kudos, and constructive criticism are always appreciated--enjoy!!

The silent tension lasted through the syrup heating process; Steve had lost himself in wondering why Bucky had asked him if he was seeing anybody. Was he curious about why he never heard someone else with him through the wall? Or did Bucky simply want to poke fun at his obvious lack of a love life? _No_ , Steve internally shook his head, _Buck’s too kind for that. Maybe he just wanted to make conversation. I kind of overreacted._ He felt the gentle nudge of an elbow in his side, bringing him out of the depths of his mind and back to his seat at the kitchen counter. Turning to look at Bucky, he couldn’t quite make eye contact, directing his eyes to the left of Bucky’s head. _I can’t believe he stuck around after I blew up at him. Gotta stop running with my impulses and snapping into defense mode if I want him to stay around._ Bucky elbowed him again, forcing Steve to shift his eyes to the right and give his full attention.

“I’ve got a question for you.” _Is he going to ask me if I have other friends besides him?_ Steve felt his heart shrink with dread. _Bucky’s going to ask if I can lay off for awhile and give him space; is every Sunday too clingy? We’re not even dating, is it possible to be friend-clingy?_ Bucky elbowed him a third time after Steve remained silent. “Stevie? You there?” Steve gave a slight nod, which Bucky interpreted as permission to ask away. “How would you feel about going out to dinner with me tonight? Just the two of us?”

“Well, you know, it’s not like I had other plans tonight,” Steve gave a small grin, relieved that Bucky hadn’t asked him about his (lack of a) social life.

“I was serious. Will you go out for dinner with me tonight?” _Oh my god, he thinks I’m kidding, what if he isn’t interested at all? I just won’t say date, I’ll let him decide. I’ll act like a good date, even if he doesn’t call it that._ Anxiously Bucky waited for a response.

Steve stopped grinning. _If Bucky keeps talking like that, he’ll make me believe it’s actually a date and not two friends grabbing supper. He’s probably just sick of only seeing me while he’s eating pancakes; I hope I’m not boring him._ “Oh. Yeah, let’s get supper. Where do you want to go?” He watched the smile return to Bucky’s face, and Steve immediately wished he had a net so he could catch the butterflies in his stomach. “I like everything, besides deep dish pizza. Gotta stay true to New York.”

After hearing that comment, Bucky knew he was in too deep, like the crust of a Chicago style pizza.

 

***

 

The pair decided to spend their supper at the diner two streets over from their apartment building; Bucky loved their milkshakes, and Steve often walked by, always admiring the mural of musicians through the decades one could see across the street from a window seat. Getting ready for what Bucky mentally dubbed a date and Steve misinterpreted as an evening out with a relatively new pal for a change of scenery. Bucky took to daydreaming while he got ready for what he so hoped was the first of many dates with his adorable neighbor.

Talking to his reflection while he brushed his hair into a low, neat ponytail, he of course discussed the finest qualities the artist brought into his life. “I’ve never seen eyes so blue; a poet could come up with nice words to talk about them; I’m gonna get lost in those eyes one of these days and he’s going to need a deep-sea fishing line to pull me back up.” Grinning into the mirror, Bucky bounced away from the bathroom to a spot in front of his bedroom’s closet. “What to wear, what to wear,” he deliberated aloud, “Should I go for something hot, or do I go classy? Can I combine those? I don’t want to try too hard, but I want him to be interested…” A pair of tight black jeans were already laid out on his bed, freshly ironed as they were always as his pants of choice, he just needed a shirt. “If I really wanna show him I’m very interested, I could always just go with no shirt on… Aw, damn, I think that diner has the whole “no shoes, no shirt, no service” rule. Damn.” Sifting through the hangers, Bucky turned away from his closet door with three shirts in hand. “Now comes the fun part. Dark green button down?” He had only gotten the top half-buttoned before deciding it looked too business casual. “Next!” He exclaimed as he dramatically lunged towards his closet to hang the button-down back in place. “Red and black checkered longsleeve?” Just looking at the shirt while still on a hanger made him wonder why he pulled it out of his closet in the first place. “I’ll wear that if I ever find out Steve has a checkerboard fetish,” He snorted at his own joke and, just as with the last shirt, put it away in hopes the next option would be a better fit. “Third time’s the charm?” He asked himself as he pulled on a fitted white v-neck short-sleeve. “This is good, but it needs something…” Looking back to the closet, he rummaged through until, of course in the back, he finds what he needs. “Perfect.” He took the jean jacket off its hanger, shrugging it on and cuffing the sleeves. Giving himself a once, twice, thrice-over in the mirror, Bucky smoothed out nervously numerous nonexistent wrinkles before he was satisfied. After spritzing a bit of cologne, he put on his socks, jeans, and high-tops before grabbing his wallet and keys, exiting the apartment to knock on Steve’s door and collect him for the walk over to their diner date.

In the other apartment, Steve had a different experience getting ready. “Oh my god, this outfit makes me look like a grandfather,” He said to his reflection as he examined the outfit he had _thought_ would look good on his slight figure.  Tucked into his pressed khaki pants was a blue and white checkered shirt with all the buttons done up. “God, even my _hair_ looks like a ninety-seven year old styled it, all slicked and parted to the side!” Only satisfied with his choice of brown boots, he was drawn out of his self-criticism by a knock on the door. Bucky. _Dammit, no time to change into something more… current._ “Just a sec!” Steve shouted across the apartment; he was glad Bucky waited in the hall rather than walking in through the unlocked door as he speed-walked out of his room, grabbing his wallet, keys, and inhaler on the way to exit. Reaching the entrance, Steve hastily undid the top two buttons of his shirt, showing his sharp collarbones and the neckline of the white short-sleeve underneath before opening the door and being greeted with his muscular neighbor’s blinding smile. Quietly gasping at the sight of a clean-cut Bucky, Steve managed to squeak out a small “hi” before locking and exiting his apartment.

“Ready to go?” Bucky asked, smile shining brighter as he looked at Steve’s choice of clothing.

Shifting uncomfortably under his friend’s gaze, Steve groaned and turned his head away from Bucky’s eyes, “Yeah, as soon as you stop looking at me like that-- I know I dressed like a grandpa, no need to rub it in.” _Why did I think khakis were a good idea?_

A frown crossed Bucky’s face before his toothy grin returned, “You’re the youngest looking grandpa I’ve ever seen then. I went crazy in college for guys that dressed in stuff like what you’re wearing.” _Too strong? Oh well, can’t take it back._ “Still do.”

Steve felt the butterflies returning to his stomach; _Did he just hit on me? No, he’s just being nice. If only._ Feeling a blush making its way up his neck and towards his cheeks, Steve turned his head away again and decided instead to poke fun and erase any sexual tension Steve had made up in his mind. “So you’ve got a thing for old men? Weird, Buck; is it the dentures that get you?” Watching his neighbor’s eyes go wide with embarrassment, Steve immediately wished he could retract his comment. _Shit, he actually was complimenting me. Fixitfixitfixitfitxit!_ “But seriously, thanks. Not many people appreciate my outfits. Wanna head out?” Bucky responded to this with just a nod, and the pair walked down the stairs and out the front door of their apartment complex in silence.

It took until they turned the corner onto the second street for the pair to get chatting again, when the mural of music came into view. This time Steve initiated contact, elbowing Bucky and pointing at the art. “I love this mural; look at the lyrics outlining the musicians! I’m partial to the thirties and forties myself.” Art always made him giddy; they stopped to stand in front of the wall while he went on describing the different techniques used in the mural’s creation, too lost in his interests to notice Bucky staring exclusively at Steve and not once glancing at the mural.

All Bucky wanted to do was watch Steve talk about art, watch his arms flail with excitement, his emphatic smile, his eyes brighter than that afternoon’s blue sky. It was a clear day in late summer, though uncharacteristically cool for a New York September evening, for when Steve stopped gesticulating to turn slightly and see if Bucky was still listening, he gave a small shiver. “Chilly?” Bucky asked, fully aware that Steve did not retain body heat very well.

A second shiver answered Bucky’s question, giving him plenty of reason to bridge the one-step gap separating the pair and wrap an arm around Steve’s shoulders. “Better?” Bucky asked, hoping Steve didn’t immediately worm away or cringe at Bucky’s advances. He saw a blush rising to Steve’s cheeks. _That could be one of two things: I’ve either got him, or I’ve embarrassed him. Welp, we’ll see._

“Yeah, a bit better, thanks.” Was all Steve could breathe out without risk of hyperventilating. _Bucky’s so sweet, he’s got an arm around me because it’s cold out and he wants me to be warm, oh my god he’s such a gentleman, I bet he would make someone very happy, if only that someone was me--_

“Great, let’s keep going then.” And with that, Bucky’s arm dropped from Steve’s shoulders to a spot on his waist, causing a whole different kind of shiver to run up Steve’s spine. Smiling to himself, Bucky noticed this shiver and commented, “Wow Stevie, you are cold; you should wear my coat on the walk back.” Steve felt like he was going to melt on the spot from how considerate Bucky was, the thought that Bucky may be the most wonderful person on the planet and Steve had the luxury of being his friend. _Friend. Two pals grabbing supper. He’s just sick of seeing me while making pancakes, probably wanted someone else to make him food._

The duo entered the restaurant, Bucky releasing Steve from the cozy spot at his side to open the door for him; Steve ducked his head and directed a small “thanks” as he scooted into the warm waiting area of the restaurant. Bucky returned to Steve’s side, though this time he poked at Steve’s hand, careful to keep Steve on the side away from his metal arm. A sign said “seat yourself”, so Bucky casually laced his fingers with Steve’s and led them to a booth with a window facing the mural across the street. Silently letting go of Steve’s hand, he slid into one side of the booth and waited for Steve to take the space across.

Still in awe that _Bucky had led me by holding my hand,_ Steve took a moment to collect himself. Deciding that Bucky simply wanted to make sure Steve didn’t get distracted looking out the window towards the mural before making it to a booth, so he led him by the hand to their current booth. Yeah, that’s it. After a pause Steve took his seat, again looking at the mural; this time, however, it was to avoid eye contact with a very attractive neighbor.

Breaking the momentary silence, Bucky asked, “Is this booth okay, Stevie? You seemed pretty entranced by the mural, figured you’d want to be able to see it while we ate.” _Stevie. That always sounds so nice._

Smiling, Steve responded only with, “Yeah, it’s perfect.” _You’re perfect, and way too out of my league._ The pair stared at each other until Bucky pulled a funny face, eyes crossed and tongue sticking out from a toothy grin; the pair laughed until a waitress approached to ask them what they’d like to drink.

“Can I get a large chocolate milkshake please?” Bucky asked; glancing across at Steve quickly he added, “With two straws?” At which the waitress raised an eyebrow, but made no comment.

“And what can I get for you, kid?” The waitress directed the question at Steve, but kept glancing at Bucky yearningly from the corner of her eye.  

However, Bucky paid no mind to the waitress’s obvious interest; he was too concerned with how uncomfortable Steve looked. In an effort to diffuse whatever discomfort was bothering him, Bucky reached a hand across the table and put it on top of Steve’s. This prompted Steve to look up and answer the waitress’s question (“Just a water, thanks”) before flipping his hand over and tickling Bucky’s palm before retracting his hand, interlocking his own fingers and resting them in his lap.

When the waitress left, Bucky asked, “Did she say something that bugged you?”

Steve shrugged; he was embarrassed at being called a kid, even though he was in his twenties. “Just don’t like being called a kid is all. I get I look young, but she didn’t even look away from you long enough to know I was a guy, let alone if I was a kid. But it’s no big deal, happens too often to get upset over it anymore.” Bucky could tell Steve wanted to drop the subject, so he stayed quiet for a moment; he could tell Steve was going to speak and change the topic soon anyways.

He was proven correct. “So, uh, Buck, can I ask you kind of a personal question?” _This is it. Steve’s going to ask me if I’m seeing anyone; how do I respond? I could play it cool-- “yeah, I’m seeing someone, he’s sitting right across from me and I never want to look away.” NOPE BUCK FAR TOO FORWARD. How about, “well, I like this one wonderful, artistic guy, and I’m out to eat with him now, but I was going to wait and see if he’d call it a date before I jumped to any titles.” Jesus, is this a romcom? Too sappy. I’ll just say “Well, I was wondering if I could see you.” What if he takes it too literally? He’s wearing his glasses, what if he thinks I’m making fun of his eyesight._

_Wait, I haven’t responded yet. Oops._ Hurriedly he gave a quick “yeah, of course”, causing Steve to raise an eyebrow before continuing.

“So, uh, I was wondering,” _Here we go…_ “well, can I ask about your arm?” _That took a turn._ “Like, does it have feeling? And do you know how the doctors got it to hook up to your nervous system? Let me know if I’m asking too much or if you’re not comfortable talking about all that, here or anywhere.” _Oh. That was not what I was expecting. I was hoping for something more… Mysterious? Romantic? Oh well. At least he’s considerate; he’s always full of surprises that make me fall harder each time he so much as breathes around me. Speaking of breathing, I hope he has his inhaler, don’t want my first kiss with him to be because I’m performing CPR._

Bucky had taken a few moments to process the question-- or at least, that’s what Steve figured was taking him so long to respond; he didn’t realize Bucky was daydreaming about rescuing Steve with mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, Goonies style. Antsy and afraid he’d hit a touchy topic _(Now’s not a good time for puns, jeez, what is wrong with me)_ , Steve tried to mend the moment. “Forget I asked about your inorganic limb--” _Inorganic? Seriously? “_ Er, I mean, your mechanic--” _That’s even worse!_ Steve gradually turned deeper shades of red with each attempted amendment and continued to trip over his words. “Well, just, your, whatever. The arm that is attached. But like, not with ligaments and stuff. Maybe it is. I don’t know, I’m not a doctor nor do I play one on TV. Oh man, please pretend none of these words ever came out of my mouth. I mean, just the ones in the past five minutes, but I’m sure there are plenty I’d like to take back from the past-past, not just the near past-- hey, are you laughing at me? Oh my lord, people are turning around to see what you’re laughing at. This is karma for something. It’s for the unsweetened coffee I gave you. It must be. Or for my god-awful slippers drawing you had to see. Jesus, are you breathing?” Bucky was clutching at his chest and wiping tears of laughter from his eyes; he had gone from a chuckle to a belly-laugh to laughing so hard no sound came out, all in a matter of moments. Steve pushed his inhaler across the table towards his soundless neighbor in an effort to diffuse the hilarity Bucky found in Steve’s stuttering; however, this gesture just seemed to make Bucky laugh even harder, forcing Steve to sit back and play with the corner of his menu until Bucky regained the ability to communicate, and more importantly, to breathe without bursting into another giggle fit.

“Do you need my inhaler?”

Another outburst of the most wonderful sound Steve had ever heard. _I could listen to him laugh forever; at this point, he just might. It’d be nice if he wasn’t laughing at me though._ “I guess not, if you’re laughing so hard.” An unintentional edge accompanied this comment, causing Bucky to cut off all laughter and turn to look at Steve with a concerned face.

“What? I’d never laugh at you! Never in a way that’d make you feel bad, I want you to feel wonderful. You are wonderful.” Noting a blush rising to Steve’s cheeks and seeing the intensity in his eyes soften, he continued, “Nobody’s described my arm like that before. Mechanic, I like how that sounds.” Bucky attempted his most charming smile to accompany his next line , “But it’s not the first thing on my body that’s been described as a mechanism.”

Steve Rogers may never back down as a reaction to fights, but nothing in his life prepared him for lines like that. Turning into a quizzical tomato, Steve shut down for a moment, mouth slightly agape and eyes blinking slowly behind his glasses. When he remembered how to use his vocal cords he asked, though he already knew the answer, “Uh, Buck, was that a… you know.... a joke about your… stuff?” _Eloquent, Rogers. Buck will think you’re a real charmer. Doesn’t matter, the only time I’m hit on is when someone is physically throwing punches at me, he’s just being a dude. Two dudes, being dudes, not a dude with a dude he wants to… fondue._

A mischievous grin crept onto Bucky’s face, but as he opened his mouth to respond, the waitress cut him off to ask for their food orders and set down their drinks. Both asking for a classic cheeseburger and fries (to share), the waitress leaned over with an extra two buttons unclasped on her shirt from when she took their drink requests, purposefully leaning over and placing the milkshake down right in front of Bucky after setting down the straws and Steve’s water in the middle of the table. “Those orders will be right up.” Winking at Bucky before she turned around, Steve rolled his eyes yet again and threw his hands up in dismay.

“Again? Seriously? Jeez Buck, is it like that at all restaurants? You know what, please don’t answer that.”

Bucky gave a fake pout. “Aw Stevie, is this about the waitress again? You know I only have eyes for you.”

_Teasing. He’s just teasing. He’s only ever teasing. I can poke back._

“No, you only have eyes for pancakes, that’s the real reason you hang around me.”

“You caught me Stevie. But, as much as I love pancakes, I’ve been craving homemade desserts all week.”

_Isn’t he sweet enough already without the added sugar?_ “Alright. Why don’t we bake something Sunday then? What do you want?”  
“Cake, so there’s lots of frosting just laying around on the counter for alternative uses.” _Did I really just say that? Bold._

Steve’s eyes widened briefly before he gathered his bearings at the thought of Bucky sucking frosting off his fingers and said quickly, “Good idea. Wow, when will our burgers come out?”

Bucky noted the urgency in Steve’s subject change and decided to lay off a bit on the suggestive remarks, and decided to go for relatable ones instead. “Give the burgers time, Steve, I didn’t come out until after my time in the army, have some sympathy,” he closed the statement with a signature smirk.

However, this remark made Steve realize just how little he knew about Bucky, and inevitably vice versa. “Is it okay to ask about that? Your… past, I guess? It feels weird saying this, but I don’t actually know that much about you. Or, at least, you before becoming neighbors.”

“Huh, hadn’t thought of that. Well,” _Buck, you can do this. Steve won’t mind if I have to stop, if I get worked up._ “I was a sergeant in the 107th, and I was… overseas, you could say, on many covert operations. It was supposed to be an indefinite tour for me because of my… specific skill sets, but a little over a year in, we were on a mission and I stayed behind to set up what I thought was a concealed sniper perch, but instead I set up not too far from a land mine. I shoulda known. I lost some men, and my arm.” He paused to take a few long deep breaths, clutching his hand around his metal fingers, resting his wrists on the edge of the table. “While I was in the hospital, some engineer named Stark--” Bucky noticed Steve’s eyebrows shoot up at the mention of that name, “Yeah, that’s right, from the infamous Stark Industries-- well, I woke up to him sitting at my bedside asking me to essentially be a guinea pig for his “new age” prosthetics.”

Steve had listened carefully, nodding at the appropriate moments and remained engaged. “Is that how you ended up with a metal handshaker?”

Smirking simply at the sound of Steve’s voice, Bucky nodded. The pair was interrupted yet again by the waitress announcing their suppers. However, when Bucky noted the waitress turn to engage him in conversation, he slid his hand across the table and locked fingers with Steve to show the waitress he simply wasn’t interested. This warranted an eyeroll and an annoyed sigh from the waitress and another deep blush from Steve. When she turned away, Bucky retracted his hands.

_Too good to be genuine,_ Steve mentally moped. “That’s one way to get a girl to stop hitting on you--not that I’d know.”

Bucky frowned for a moment at Steve. “Really?” He pushed the milkshake into the middle of the table and handed Steve a straw. “Because I think your milkshakes bring all the boys to the yard.”

This drew a laugh from Steve, and the pair continued to chat about their lives. Steve talked about his upcoming job interview and how he thought the following week’s Dodgers vs. Yankees game would play out, while Bucky responded with his own predictions and a walkthrough of some of the jokes he and his crew members told regularly on the docks, all the while sharing the milkshake with their two straws in between bites of burger and snippets of conversation. “So what you’re suggesting is that, as a last minute portfolio addition, I draw the Dodgers stomping on the Yankees’ pitcher? Buck, what if they’re Yankees fans? They’d never hire me! Remind me to never use you for ideas, unless you’re letting me draw you.” _Nope, didn’t sound desperate at all. Good going, Steve._

Apparently, it was good going for Steve, for at the mere mention of him potentially drawing his neighbor, Bucky’s eyes lit up, causing Steve’s heart to change careers and become an acrobat. “Would you draw me? I mean, I know artists probably hate it when people ask for drawings of themselves, but really, if you ever want to, I’m definitely willing to pose.” Steve’s heart at this point had also joined the circus.

Once they were done, Bucky paid for the bill, refusing to let Steve hand him any money, “Seriously Steve, it’s easier to just put it all on my card. Just draw me if you want to pay me back so badly; a meal doesn’t even cover the cost of labor for a picture. Yes, I’m serious. Actually, I’m Bucky.” He protested until he convinced Bucky to let him at least pay for the tip. “Happy now? Let’s get out of here before that waitress loses any more shirt buttons,” At which Steve laughed and allowed Bucky to put his arm around his shoulders when they exited the restaurant and were greeted by the cool night air.

They walked like this all the way to their apartment complex, and even up the stairs to their floor, where when in front of Bucky’s door, he took a risk. Lowering his voice, he asked, “Want to go back to my place?”

Steve clearly did not understand what Bucky was asking. “Nice try Buck, but we just ate supper-- it’s too soon to bake that cake! Besides, I have an interview with that design firm I mentioned, I can’t be up too late waiting for the cake to cool before we frost it. But, you know, I live next door, so I’ll inevitably be seeing you soon. Goodnight!” And with that, he slipped out from underneath Bucky’s arm and turn to walk the few steps down the hallway and into his own apartment. Bucky was left standing in the hall long after Steve had closed his door, baffled at how blatantly Steve did not understand that Bucky most certainly was not in the mood for baking a cake. _How blunt will I have to be? Do I have to make a sign that says, “Kiss me, Steve Rogers!” Or is he just that disinterested? I need to talk to Nat and Clint about this one._

 

 


	5. Eggs in a Basket (Bird Brains)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky goes to Clint for advice, and Steve is kicked out by Sam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY THAT I LET THIS STORY FALL ON THE BACK BURNER. College, apparently, takes up more time than I thought it would. However, I am now on winter break until the third week of January, so I will be binge writing this story to make up for my lack of updates in the past couple of months. Thank you so much to those who stuck with me and waited!! I am in the process of writing the next chapter, so hopefully that is up soon (I am no longer setting timeframes because I don't want to disappoint anyone). Enjoy!!

“So he thought you wanted him to cook for you? Are you bullshitting me, Barnes? Because that’s fucking ridiculous. No, you’re probably not, because that’s too damned naive for someone with your moves to make up.” Clint threw another dart at the board on his wall, and turned to Bucky so he could read his lips while his friend kept telling him about his faulty date.

Bucky sighed in exasperation. “I know it’s ridiculous; I thought I had dropped enough hints throughout the not-date for me to get the message across.” He flailed his arms as though questioning a higher power. “Turns out, I was unbelievably incorrect.” He shook his head and ran a hand through his hair before taking a band off of his wrist and putting his hair into a ponytail. “I even used my sultry voice to ask him if he wanted to come back to my place! _Everyone loves the sultry voice, Clint!_ Does this mean he doesn’t dig me? Clint, I feel like a damned high schooler trying to ask someone to prom. Steve’s so damned special; most of the time, it’s just one and done. But man, we make _breakfast_ together! He leaves his apartment unlocked every Sunday morning so I can come in and make coffee while he’s showering! And I don’t even join him after the coffee’s brewed!”

At that comment Clint held up a hand as a signal for Bucky to stop. “You’re doing it again.”

“What again?”

“The thing where you ramble and psych yourself out. Do you think people that are “just friends” leave their apartments unlocked for someone to slip inside in the morning? Does that not scream interest to you? And don’t even get me started on how he practically landed in your lap last week. If that isn’t a sign, I don’t know what is.” Clint turned away to throw another dart.

Bucky sighed and too picked up a dart; they were shaped like mini-arrows-- a custom made set Nat and Bucky bought him for Christmas years ago. He set the dart back down; his mind wasn’t clear enough to hold it correctly, let alone throw it and actually hit the wall target. He heard a dart hit the board, and lifted his head to wait for Clint to turn back around and continue their conversation.

“Buck, what you need is a plan.”

At that, Bucky’s eyes widened and took a step back for dramatic effect. “Clint, no offense, but remember what happened in Budapest with you and Nat the last time you tried to devise a plan? Thanks, but no thanks pal.”

Clint scrunched up his nose in response. “Tough crowd. Can’t you just flat out tell him you dig him? Just say, “hey blondie, I’d like to flip _you_ like a pancake!” Then give him a wink-- it works every time.” Clint turned around, threw another dart, and turned back, following the routine he fell into every time Bucky came to visit.

Bucky rolled his eyes. “You might have a hawk eye when it comes to darts, but when it comes to pick up lines, you make even Nat cringe, and Nat _never_ cringes. Besides, I feel like Steve might throw a punch if I call him blondie, and I wouldn’t blame him.”

Clint simply shrugged and smirked in response. “Say, what if you wrote something sappy in maple syrup on one of his pancakes? Heh, sap. Get it? No? Okay, anyways, say it through food. I don’t know, maybe have a cooking competition; loser has to take the winner out on a date. Nobody loses! I see the look you’re giving me, but do you have a better idea there, big guy?”

 _I don’t at the moment, but anything is better than that idea._ With that, Clint returned to his turn, dart, turn routine and Bucky continued to try and construct a better plan, with little success. _At this point, maybe I’ll take Clint’s plan. What’s the worst that could happen?_ He admitted defeat when Clint turned back around. “Alright, alright. Tell me how I’d even go about setting up this cooking competition. What if Steve thinks I’m insulting his cooking? Then he’ll never believe I want him, he’ll think everything I say is just to mess with him.”

Clint pretended to shoot finger guns at his friend, an eyebrow raised and a grin across his mouth. “Well, you do want to mess with him, just not in that way.”

Bucky raised his hands as though to throttle the innuendo source. “Not helping Clint. Seriously, how do I do this?”

  


***

 

Sam decided to repeatedly recap Steve’s recounting of his weekend with Bucky. This was the third iteration in a row. “So what you’re telling me is that he asked you if you like guys, which you do, and you threatened him? Then he took you out to dinner anyways? If that’s not him being interested, I don’t know what is.”

Frustrated, Steve threw his arms up in distress and responded for the third time, “I’m telling you Sam, he’s not interested in me, he just asked about who I was seeing to make sure I wasn’t some bigot. Then he wanted to have food somewhere that wasn’t my kitchen counter. Nothing romantic about that!” _But I wish it were._

Almost as though he had read Steve’s mind, Sam continued, “From the way you talk about this guy, it sounds like you want it to be something more, am I right? Because that totally can happen.”

“Come on, someone like Bucky, all tall, dark, handsome, mechanical arm, and charming doesn’t like scrawny, asthmatic, and pasty guys like me. Few people do.” Sighing, Steve moved from the living room couch in Sam’s apartment to the attached kitchen, standing under a sign saying “The Nest” that he bought Sam as a housewarming gift-- something about Sam constantly acting as a mama bird, like right now, brought it on. “Besides, when we got back from supper, he wanted me to come over; I had mentioned cake, so I guessed he wanted to bake it right then.”

At this new information, Sam’s eyebrows shot up and launched into his hairline. Smirking and tilting his head forward, he simply said, “Oh?”

Without noticing Sam’s peaked interest, Steve continued, “Yeah, but I told him that it wasn’t the time for dessert making because I had an interview in the morning, which went very well I’ll have you know.”

Sam shook his head. “Yeah, sure, nice job with the interview, we’ll talk about that some other time. Steve, I don’t think he wanted to make cake right then.”

Confused and oblivious, Steve asked, “Well, then what else would he want?”

Sam shook his head and ran his hands over his face. “Oh man, am I going to have to spell it out for you? Scratch that, I know I have to. Dude, I think he wanted you to go to a very specific place in his apartment, if you know what I mean.”

Agitated at Sam’s cryptic language, Steve grumbled, “No, I don’t know what you mean. Where would he want to go, his kitchen so I could make that dessert? I just told you, we had just eaten!”

Bringing his hands back to cover his face and continuing to shake his head, Sam responded, “I was thinking more like his bed. Or his couch. Maybe the kitchen, if he’s into that.”

“What the hell do you mean-- oh.” Steve transformed from expert pancake chef into a ripe cherry tomato. “OH. Well, uhm, ah, yeah, probably not.” _Oh my god what if Sam’s right?_ In this moment, Steve was very thankful that he was wearing both thick jeans and a long shirt, for it wasn’t only his face that was feeling flushed; this simply caused Steve’s blush to deepen. _Keep it together Steve._

“He just wine, well I guess milkshake, and dined you, and you seriously didn’t pick up on the hint? Tell me, can you imitate the voice he used to ask that?”

Steve groaned. “Awh Sam, come on, it wasn’t anything special. He just lowered his voice and whispered in my ear. I’m probably misremembering because he’s so damned hot and so not into me.”

Sam was very much so at risk of pulling a neck muscle at this point. “For someone who pays such close attention to detail when you’re _drawing_ this guy-- don’t even deny it, I’ve seen the sketches you do while we watch tv--you sure are oblivious when the details pertain to _you_.” Seeing Steve merely shrug embarrassedly in response only caused Sam to shake his head more. “If you don’t smarten up about this whole Bucky thing, I’m gonna keep shaking my head in disappointment, and then I’ll end up getting whiplash because of you. Get your shit together, man, and go get him!” And with that, Sam swooped over and ushered Steve out of his apartment.

Well, more like shoved. “What gives Sam?!”

Standing in his doorway with Steve in the hall, Sam shrugged. “It’s time for some tough love. Honestly Steve, I don’t think I can handle having you around until you quit acting like such a birdbrain with the boy next door you’ve got swooning over you. He took you to a restaurant specifically so _you_ could look at the building art from the window! _He asked if you wanted to bang after he walked you home._ ”

“Sam, he’s my neighbor, he kind of _had_ to walk me home.”  
Shaking his head furiously, Sam refuted, “Then explain why he pushed so hard to pay for both his and your meal while on your DATE. You and I both know it’s not tough for servers to give separate checks, so that ‘all on one card’ business was bullshit. You just went on a date with your next door neighbor, and until you realize that’s what happened, you’re not allowed back here.” When Steve gave Sam a look of pure confusion and indignation, Sam altered his initial threat. “On second thought, I’ll be calling you hourly to discuss different plans on how we can confirm that Bucky has the hots for someone as-- and I mean this in the most affectionate way possible-- thick-skulled and oblivious as you. Now, scram, I’ll call you in an hour.” And with that, Sam stepped back and shut his door; a stunned Steve stood outside the door, prepared to knock and ask to come back in, until he heard his friend lock the entrance.

“ONE HOUR, STEVE. GOODBYE.” Steve sighed, shook his head in mild disbelief at how seriously Sam was taking this whole date idea, and headed back to his own apartment.

 

***

 

After Sam shooed him out, Steve went back to his apartment and crashed on his couch. Asking the coffee table in front of him, he asked, “Why did he kick me out like a stray? Am I that needy?” He groaned. “If even Sam, the king of over-analysis, is telling me to get my feelings in check, then I guess I should address this stupid mega-crush. Or, I could continue to bask in the glory of Bucky’s existence and keep painfully pining. Yeah, that works.”

Simply sitting there, head against the top of the cushions, his mind wandered to all genres of thoughts of Bucky. Fantasies ranging from innocent thoughts of domesticity, _how lovely would it be to come home to Bucky cooking supper?_ to more raunchy versions, _how hot would it be to come home to Bucky in only an apron?_ The thoughts were endless and elaborate. _I just want him to lean against the counter, holding a mug of the coffee he brews so perfectly, so I can draw him. When the sketch is done, I’d be able to replace the mug in his hands. He could hold my face, smirking at how I have to be on tiptoes to reach his lush lips…_ Steve picked his head up and looked around his apartment, as though searching for a solution to his pining. _I’m hopeless, and I should stop daydreaming like the fool I am. Maybe drawing will help._ Picking up his sketchpad off the nearby coffee table, he tried drawing to clear his mind, but his pencil strokes never failed to present Steve with an outline of Bucky’s face. _It’s a nice face, why wouldn’t I draw it? Ugh, I’m not helping myself though. TV maybe?_

Quickly standing and grabbing his laptop off the kitchen counter, he perched it on the coffee table, and proceeded to surf the web until he found a show to mindlessly watch in an attempt to distract his thoughts from again wandering to his neighbor. He hoped that watching a show would provide a better solution to his endless daydreaming, so he laid on his couch, parallel to the coffee table, and hit play. About an hour and two episodes into watching the show (he decided on _Friends_ ), Steve felt himself just about to doze off when he heard a knock on his door. Before he could react and get up to answer, he found Bucky standing in the middle of his living room. _I must’ve left the door unlocked._ Not moving from his laying position on the couch, Steve greeted him. “Hey Buck, thanks for swinging by.” _Why am I thanking him? I didn’t extend an invite. But who am I to complain about another chance to see Bucky?_ Before responding, Bucky took a step towards his neighbor.

“I need to ask you something.” Bucky accompanied this statement with a smirk.

Steve knit his eyebrows; _Ask me something? I saw him like, yesterday. What could he need?_ He moved to sit up, but before he got fully repositioned, Bucky stripped off his shirt.

At that, Steve dropped back to laying on the couch. The shirt’s disappearance exposed the hard lines of Bucky’s torso and how dangerously low his jeans rested on his hips, presenting both the band of his boxers and the v of his hips. “Uh, Buck, it looks like you lost something--”

“Draw me.” At this request-- _demand?_ \-- Steve bolted upright. Reaching for his sketchbook, he simply nodded and began outlining Bucky’s figure. After what felt like only a few seconds, Steve was adding the finishing details to the sketch. “I’ll come closer so you can _really_ see the little details.” Bucky took a few steps forward, and Steve looked back down to begin shading; when he looked back up for reference, he found he was eye-level and no more than three inches away from the v of the hips he had just been detailing. Taken aback, Steve remained motionless when Bucky leaned down and took the pencil and sketchpad from his still hands, and only moved with the help of Bucky’s hand pushing him back onto the couch into nearly the same lying position Steve had started out in.

 _Oh my._ Bucky loomed overhead for a moment, the same smirk returning to his face, before he moved to straddle his now horizontal comrade. _Oh my mother Mary is this happening--_

Placing a hand on either side of Steve’s head, Bucky leaned down and whispered, “Only in your dreams, come get me in reality.” This time to interrupt Steve laying down, his phone began to buzz and he woke up, Bucky nowhere in sight.

 _Damn._ Reaching over to answer the phone, he found Sam on the other end of the call. “Steve, this is the fourth time I’ve called you, I was starting the worry that you fell off the planet.”

“Sorry man, I just… fell asleep watching tv I guess. What’s up?” Looking down at his lap, Steve felt something of his own that was up. _I’ll have to take care of that._

“I _told_ you I was going to call every hour with plans. Listen to this one: what if you had us all hang out together? You know, invite Bucky over to hang out with you and me, play some videogames and order pizza. Then I could, maybe, help you read signs that indicate whether Bucky digs you. How does that sound?”

 _Is that a good idea? I don’t think I want Sam hyper-analyzing my crush just yet…_ “I don’t know about that pal. Sometimes you tend to go a bit, uh, overboard, when it comes to the few people I’ve been interested in. Remember how you pretty much scared away Peggy?” _The one chance I had with the most incredible woman on the planet, and Sam has to go off and tell fifteen stories of how I still get beat up for opening my big mouth, and to make things worse, he started telling her about his war stories being a pilot; and all of that happened before I even got her number. Yeah, no introducing Sam yet._

“Look, it’s not my fault I didn’t know she was a war vet too! Regardless, you have to do something about Bucky. I’ll call you in another hour.”

Releasing yet another sigh, Steve put his phone back on the coffee table and left his living room to go shower and take care of a _hard_ situation.

Walking into his bathroom, Steve gripped the counter and stared at his reflection. _This crush is getting out of hand. How am I going to look Bucky in the eye after that dream? What the hell was my subconscious trying to tell me?_ He shook his head, moving away from the mirror to turn on the water in his shower. Stripping off each article of clothing only worsened the dream-touch Steve still felt lingering on his body; _What did that even mean, “come get me in reality?” Is my own dream leading me on?_ He stepped under the water and tried to think of any other face, but each image he conjured up always morphed into the same chiseled jawline, same brown locks; the familiar eyes, the kind smile. _I can’t even blame myself for wanting him this badly._

After he finished (in more ways than simply washing his hair), Steve was standing in front of his dresser with just his towel grabbing sweatpants to lounge around in when he heard a knock on the door. _At least I know this time it’s not a dream; it’s probably Sam with another half-assed plan to try and help me win over Bucky._ He made his way down the hall. _Not that he’s something to be won, he’s his own person. Whatever._ As he opened the door he began speaking to Sam, “It’s gotten to the point where you’re making house calls? Come on Sam, now you’re the one obsessing.”

“Who’s Sam?”

_Oh._

  



	6. It's All a Piece of Cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cook-off unfolds, and Bucky and Sam meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY NEW YEAR! I've been dog/house-sitting all week, so I've had a lot of time to myself to write this chapter and make it hopefully the chapter y'all deserve for sticking with this story. As always, thanks to my best pal for reading/editing and putting up with my late night texts asking her to validate my ideas. Comments are always appreciated; enjoy!

_ Well, fuck.  _ He didn’t need to look up from his feet in order to see that it was not Sam standing in his doorway. The familiar voice defensively demanding, “Who’s Sam?” was all Steve needed to find out that Bucky Barnes, the exact man he had just dreamed about, was standing in front of him. To make matters worse, Steve didn’t have a shirt on.  _ Great, now Bucky gets to gawk at my toothpick of a torso. Awesome.  _ Looking up, he brought himself to answer meekly, “Oh, sorry, I was expecting someone else.”

Steve noticed a change in Bucky’s posture.  _ Did he just straighten his back? He looks grumpy now. Shit, I offended him, he thinks I don’t want to see him. Fix it Rogers! _

“Someone else? Am I interrupting something and you’re insinuating I should I be on my way?” Steve could see that his neighbor was tense;  _ if I didn’t know any better, I’d almost say he sounds jealous, but I won’t kid myself. He’s just grumpy-- I’d be grumpy too if someone greeted me like that at the door after I took the time to make a house, er, door, call. _

Maybe too enthusiastically Steve squawked, “No! Stay! I mean, if you want.” Bucky gave him a once over. Embarrassed, Steve remembered he was still topless and began to blush. Frantically he added, “It’s cold out in the hall. I’m going to grab a shirt, and fifteen more layers to conceal my body with probably. I mean, want to come in?”

Bucky gave his signature smirk. “You’re cold? By the way your face is turning red, I figured you were too warm and that’s why you lost the shirt. It’s a good look, keep it off if you’d like. I would still love to come in though, if you’ll host me.” This only caused Steve to blush further. As if Steve wasn’t mortified by this point, he certainly was after Bucky went to take a step inside and stopped halfway through the entry to ask, “You never answered my question. Who is Sam?” Steve could feel a bit of bitterness in the question, but he couldn’t pinpoint why it’d be there.

With the blush spreading down his neck and around his shoulders, Steve turned away from Bucky as though to walk back inside and vaguely responded, “Just my pal, I visited him today and he said he would swing by later today, but clearly it is not later-enough today for him to arrive. Because he isn’t here yet. Today.” Adding a  _ yikes  _ under his breath, Steve continued to move forward into his apartment and into his bedroom to grab a shirt. Bucky waited a moment to step inside, so Steve had a shirt on and was returning to the living room just as Bucky was taking a seat on the couch.

An awkward silence fell over the pair; it was Bucky who spoke up first. “So, uh, I actually came over to ask you something.” Steve was avoiding sitting on the couch in an attempt to keep thoughts of his recent dream at bay during his current interactions with the subject of said dream, so he hovered awkwardly on the other side of the coffee table, facing his visitor. Bucky continued, “I had an idea. It’s okay if you don’t like it. But I hope you like it. I don’t mean to offend you with it, because you’re great at cooking--”

“Cooking?” Steve shifted from side to side, confused and mildly concerned.  _ He actually does only like me for my cooking. What the hell.  _

“Yikes. I made it weird. Can I start over?” Bucky looked up at Steve, mirroring the same uncomfortable cringe Steve wore. “Also, you’re just standing across from me hovering like this is some sort of interrogation. Sit, please, it will make my idea sound less weird hopefully.” Steve blushed and obliged, but sat on the arm of the couch in an attempt to limit the possibilities of his dream coming true--  _ I don’t think I’m prepared for that happening just yet, as nice of a dream as it was. _

“Anyways, I had an idea. What if we had a cooking competition?”

“A what? Do you _actually_ only like me for my cooking?” Steve wished he had bit his tongue, but it was too late. He dropped his gaze to the floor, blushing, and only looked up when he heard Bucky-- laughing?  
Sarcastically, the literal man of Steve’s dreams remarked, “Yes Stevie, the only reason I hang around you is because I can’t get enough of your pancakes. Did it ever cross your mind that I enjoy your company?” Steve’s blush returned, darkening a few shades. “ _Anyways_ , I thought it would be fun to have a cook-off, like the ones on tv, and the loser has to take the winner out to dinner.” Bucky wanted to add _on a date_ , but figured it was simply too forward. _Forward is what I need to be to get my message across, but I’m a big wimp and I’m afraid of rejection. Hopefully this shitty plan is dumb enough to work._

Steve blushed further--was he actually plucked from a tomato plant as a child?--and beamed, responding enthusiastically. “That sounds like a plan. We can do a cook-off to see who makes the best version of that cake you were talking about at supper, it’s perfect.”  _ You’re perfect. _ “When works best for you?”

“Uh, well, I, erm,” Bucky stammered. He hadn’t actually thought through Clint’s crackpot plan all the way through. “Are you busy today?”

Steve appeared to shift uncomfortably with that remark, causing Bucky to remember Steve was actually expecting someone else, not his desperate and borderlining obsessive next door neighbor, to show up that afternoon. This reminder made Bucky’s initial jealously return;  _ what if he’s just waiting for me to leave?  _

“I would suggest today, but I don’t want to interrupt your time with your pal  _ Sam. _ ” Seeing Steve visibly shirk away at the passive aggressive mention of his friend’s name made Bucky instantly regret the envy-driven venom he let drip from his tongue. Trying to shift towards a lighter tone that alleviated some of the awkward tension Bucky had caused, he tried a more inclusive approach without dropping the idea of competing almost immediately. Bucky reminded himself,  _ there’s no time like the present, and every moment spent with Steve is a gift, regardless of who else is there.  _ Ultimately he suggested, “Unless you wanted to include him, I mean, that’s fine too,” Steve almost seemed to deflate at the mention of an additional contestant, making Bucky’s heart twist with confusion.  _ How many times am I going to have to alter this until he agrees? Is he really that disinterested? I’m probably making a fool of myself. Oh well, one more shot and then I’ll drop it. _ “Of course, having three people in the kitchen might be too many, so maybe after your friend leaves? What do you think?”  _ I dug myself into a nice deep hole with this dumb idea. _

Steve shifted from the arm of the chair and slid onto a couch cushion beside Bucky, though still keeping a certain distance between the pair. Thinking for what felt like an eternity to Bucky, the slight man finally responded, “I like the idea of now, and about Sam, he probably won’t show up today, actually. I think he’s busy. Besides, he’s a hazard in the kitchen, we wouldn’t want to have another incident involving smoke and inhalers. Will you look up the recipe? I just want to check and see if I have all the ingredients.” Steve knew very well that he had all the according ingredients, even enough to make two cakes, just in case anything went wrong with their hypothetical first attempt. So yes, he did go out and buy baking items after Bucky mentioned wanting that cake, and he did so shamelessly.

With a broad smile spreading across his face Bucky obliged, and proved that Steve did have everything necessary for their impending competition. Steve flashed a smile before he hopped up from his seat, cheered, “May the best chef win!” and practically dove to the kitchen, with Bucky at his heels.

 

***

 

By the time they were only halfway through their individual baking processes, the pair was already covered in flour. A hand was printed on Bucky’s shoulder and a smear of powdery white down Steve’s cheek indicated that Bucky’s cook-off idea didn’t end up a complete bust. The two grown men stopped baking briefly while Bucky was partway through mixing batter and Steve was greasing pans in order to open a new bag of flower. This led to Steve sticking his hand in the flour, disguising the powdery attack as a congratulatory slap on the back for good work thus far. His newly coated-in-white companion retaliated by grabbing a handful of the same substance and returning the compliment, only instead of clapping Steve’s shoulder, Bucky went to rub his hand on top of Steve’s head as though petting a dog. Steve dodged this to some degree; instead of getting flour in his hair, it landed down the side of his face. The pair laughed at their respective additional powdery layers and returned to finish their baking.

Once both cakes were in the oven and a timer was set, both set to work on creating the perfect frosting with which to coat the cakes. Similarly to the flour, Bucky ended up with frosting on his person via a mixer explosion. 

“I didn’t realize you put the mixer in the bowl of stuff BEFORE turning it on!” Bucky exclaimed, taking the hand towel from Steve’s hand and wiping the components of buttercream frosting from his forehead. However, Steve was too busy laughing at his neighbor’s mistake to respond properly, so he just pointed at the mess splashed on his kitchen counter with one hand and reached for his inhaler with the other, still in stitches.

Bucky took this opportunity to have Steve again reflect him in appearance. After the smaller man regulated his breathing between laughs, Bucky took some frosting off of his own cheek and went at Steve with buttercream fingers. Steve dodged Bucky’s first attacking lunge, but had backed himself into a corner, kitchen sink on one side and cabinet on the other. Leaning against the counter, Steve had no other choice but to turn his head and accept a smearing of frosting on the side of his once clean nose. 

“Rude!” Steve exclaimed, turning his head to face Bucky, eyes squinted but mouth returning the grin his neighbor faced him with. 

Bucky retorted, “Oh, you thought  _ that  _ was rude? How do you like this then?” He took a step forward, making it so Steve was leaning against the counter and their bodies were nearly pressed together, and added to the frosting on his nose, smearing it down so his fingers moved down Steve’s face, spreading the sweet substance over his slightly parted lips.

Steve inhaled quickly, breath lost for reasons other than asthma, and subconsciously licked the frosting from his lips, gaze never leaving Bucky’s.  _ I’d love to kiss the rest of the frosting from his face, and then some…  _ At some point during this thought, Bucky had shifted closer so their bodies actually were touching.

This new contact brought Steve back to earth, causing him to snap the gaze and blush a bright red while wiping the frosting from his face with his hand. “I guess you got me back pretty fairly…” He looked back up, and  _ holy shit was James Buchanan Barnes leaning in for a kiss oh my god the gap is closing this is it life has never been so beautiful color has never been so bright--” _

_ BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP _

Bucky jumped back, spinning away from Steve to silence the timer. Facing away from the man he was previously pressed against, Bucky too loudly stated, “Well, I guess the cake’s done, time to get them out of the oven. Where do you keep the oven mitts, Stevie?”

_ Stevie. _

With no mention of the potentially-almost-kiss, the pair finished the rest of their baking in silence, partially due to concentration, but mostly due to how neither of them were sure how to react to what was nearly their first kiss. Bucky had too many thoughts racing through his mind:  _ Did he want me to kiss him? He didn’t shirk away, but I didn’t give him much space to. Oh my god, what if he was disgusted by the frosting on his face and was too grossed out to stop me from leaning in? He didn’t say no, but that doesn’t mean he said he wanted to kiss me… He would have stopped me if he really didn’t feel anything towards me at all, so I’ve got a shot. Maybe?  _

Steve broke the silence with an exclamation of how his cake was done and beautifully frosted. He peered over at Bucky’s handiwork and smiled. “Wow, looks almost the same as mine. I guess we’ll have to taste it to see who the winner is.”

Drawing Bucky out of his numerous thoughts, he laughed. “I know I at least have a personal bias towards my cake, don’t you think we should have a subjective source judge them?”

Almost as if on cue, there was a knock at Steve’s door. “Looks like you’re a popular man, Stevie,” Steve looked towards the door with confusion. “Maybe it’s our judge?”

The blond walked away from his cake station, grabbing his phone and noting the six missed called and fifteen texts from Sam.  _ Shit,  _ he thought,  _ Now he’s going to analyze Bucky’s every action and make this day weirder than it’s already been. I’ll have to talk to him about how close Bucky got to my face earlier…  _ He reached the door, but before opening, he sent Sam a text. 

_ Bucky is over, long story short, having a baking competition. _

Sam sent back a smirking emoji.

Steve rolled his eyes, sending  _ Don’t make it weird, I mean it  _ and opened the door.

“Hey Sam, you’re just in time to come in and taste-test.” Steve shot Sam a warning look as Sam’s face reflected that of the emoji he sent. The pair walked to the kitchen, where Bucky was busying himself with smoothing out the frosting on his cake. Setting the knife down and turning to face Steve, Sam introduced himself.

Smiling mischievously, he said, “Hi there, I’m Sam. I assume you’re Bucky? Steve’s told me a  _ lot  _ about you.” This prompted an elbow to the ribs from Steve.

Giving a small wave with his human hand--Steve noticed he immediately put his metal hand behind his back with the introduction of a new person--Bucky responded quietly, “Hi Sam. I haven’t heard much about you, sorry.” This statement left all three men feeling tense, so Steve interjected with explaining the cook-off to Sam; when he got to the part where the loser takes the other out to dinner, Sam gave a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows, causing both men to blush.

Bucky defended his idea, “I just thought it’d be nice, you know, because neither person  _ really  _ loses that way and we still get to eat cake.”  _ And then I get to pretend I’m on another date with Steve, even if he again doesn’t realize that’s what it is.  _ Feeling the awkwardness in the room return, he cut off any discussion of the consequences of losing and said, “Well, speaking of that, let’s see who is the real winner of this bake-off.” Steve picked up the suggestion and told Sam to leave the room so he could take a slice from each cake and give them to Sam unlabeled to determine which tastes better.

When Sam left Bucky didn’t ask about his sudden arrival, though he couldn’t help but wonder if Steve had requested backup from his friend after Bucky nearly kissed him.  _ But I didn’t see him pick up his phone at all, and I was watching him from the corner of my eye the whole time; wow, I watched him the whole time. I’m so far gone for this guy.  _ This realization didn’t cause him to stop watching Steve; he observed how precisely Steve sliced the cake and related it to Steve’s careful pencil strokes, and he noted how Steve gave a small giggle at the two plates with the two different slices (A for Bucky’s and B for Steve’s) were identical in density, frosting, and size.

“Alright Sam, it’s safe to come back in!” Steve yelled across his apartment, and Sam returned to judge.

After a few minutes of silent deliberation, Sam declared that the two slices were exactly the same. “Seriously, if I couldn’t see with my own eyes that there was a piece missing from both cakes, I’d say you guys were pulling my leg and just giving me two slices from the same baked good. It’s kind of weird, actually. But, this also means I can’t decide a winner, so it looks like you guys will just have to take each other out to dinner mutually.”

The ever-competitive Steve groaned, and before he could grumble at Sam, Bucky spoke for the first time since Sam’s introduction and said shyly, “I guess- it’s a date then. Thanks Sam.” 

Sam’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline, smirked at Steve and responded, “Anytime Bucky. Now, I’m off, enjoy your…” he smirked at Steve again, “ _ date _ . Bye!” And with that, he stood up, turned away, and walked out of the apartment, leaving Steve and Bucky with a mountain of dishes to do and a great deal of unresolved emotional tension.

The pair looked at each other and Steve rolled his eyes, a blush spreading up from his neck. The smaller man moved towards the dishes, Bucky no longer in his field of vision.  _ Had Sam’s abrupt exit caused that? Is Steve embarrassed by the idea of going on a date with me? Is Sam interested in him and that’s why he made a house call?  _ Again, the doubt-filled thoughts sent Bucky’s brain into a tornado of emotions and confusion. He glanced over at the mound of dishes. “I guess we should address that,” Bucky said, nodding towards the dirty cookware.

However, Steve’s back was to Bucky, for he was still facing the sink. At Bucky’s suggestion, his shoulders noticeably tensed. His response showed that he clearly did not realize Bucky meant they should clean up the kitchen. “Address who Sam is?” His voice seemed to quiver. 

With the mention of Sam’s name, Bucky’s chest began to fill with dread.  _ Sam does mean something more than friends to him. He wants to make that clear before he rejects me for almost kissing him. Just my luck. Better get it over with.  _ “I meant the dishes, but let’s talk about Sam too.”  _ Sam said Steve told him a bunch about me, why hadn’t Steve said much about Sam to me? Maybe he doesn’t actually want to be anything more than neighbors. Fuck. I wouldn’t tell my neighbor about my outside life.  _ A moment of silence passed. “So, Sam said you’ve talked about me a lot. Who is Sam to you?” Bucky could feel his jealousy rising, and he was sure Steve could hear it in his voice. “Is he a boyfriend?”  _ Steve said he wasn’t seeing anyone…  _ “An ex?” 

Drawing the water and never turning away from the sink, Steve’s shoulders relaxed and he guffawed at Bucky’s suggestions. “Boyfriend? Ex? Holy shit Buck, Sam’s straighter than a toothpick, and he’s unbelievably not my type.”  _ And he’s not you.  _ He busied himself by starting to rinse dishes.

Bucky felt relief wash away the jealousy, but that only left him with more questions.  _ Then why was Steve so worried about him showing up? Can I be his type?  _ “Alright. I have another question, then. What  _ is  _ your type?” As soon as the words left his mouth, he felt like there was a hand gripping his heart, waiting for the response as a sort of command to either rip it out or allow a release. Bucky knew he was being bold with that question, but at this point he felt he had nothing to lose.

Steve still didn’t turn away from the sink, but set down the bowl he was scrubbing and shut off the water. quietly, almost as though he didn’t want the other man to hear, he whispered, “You.”

The grip on Bucky’s heart lessened, allowing it to start racing. For a moment, he was speechless at his luck.  _ I’m his type? He likes me?  _ A smile graced his face as the reality of the situation set in. Knowing Steve reciprocated interest, at least to some degree, gave Bucky a boost of confidence. This allowed him to flirt more bluntly than he had prior to knowing if Steve felt any affection towards him.

Boldly, he moved towards the smaller man, who still faced the sink. Stopping only when he was less than a foot behind him, he placed his human hand on Steve’s shoulder and gently tugged as a sign that he wanted Steve to face him. While doing this, he said in a low voice, “Do you want to know what my type is?” A shiver raced up Steve’s spine; he nodded yes. Bucky lowered his head so his mouth was next to Steve’s ear and continued in the same sensual tone, “My type is a guy that I can wrap my entire being around, a guy that has piercingly beautiful eyes, a guy that leaves his door unlocked for me so I can slip in and make coffee.”  _ Maybe now I can slip into the shower too. Or, better yet, skip the coffee and I’ll start out in the apartment.  _ With each remark he drew his away from Steve’s ear and instead leaned in towards Steve’s slightly parted lips. “My type is guys that sketch what they feel, and given the portraits in a pile on your counter, you’re feeling me.” 

With that, it wasn’t Bucky who moved down to make their lips meet, but it was Steve’s quick arm snaking around the back of the taller man’s neck as a way for Steve to surge up and finally close the distance between their lips. It was rushed and chaste, and everything Bucky needed right in that instance. For a moment Bucky broke the contact and took a small step back to take in the sight of Steve, cheeks rosy and eyes excited. That image was all Bucky needed to lunge at Steve and grab his hips, hoisting him into the air and precariously placing him on the counter ledge in front of the sink full of water. To better balance himself, Steve wrapped his legs around Bucky’s waist and Bucky held the seated man’s face. Now, Bucky took a more gentle approach and softly placed his lips on the corner of Steve’s mouth. He reflected this kiss on the other side of the recipient’s mouth, and then finally meeting in the middle to allow the pair to properly indulge. Bucky tried to take in every detail: how Steve sighed a bit when Bucky moved his metal hand from his face and began to play with the hem of Steve’s shirt; how the pair couldn’t seem to get close enough to each other, even when their bodies were pressed flush against each other; how Bucky noted Steve squirmed when he accidentally poked the smaller man’s side.

Amused by how ticklish his neighbor seemed, Bucky deepened their kiss, darting his tongue in and out of his own mouth, at first against Steve’s lips, then tracing behind the other man’s teeth. Then, when he assumed Steve was too focused on the kiss to notice anything else going on, Bucky raked the tips his metal fingers quickly up Steve’s side, causing him to squeal and squirm. Both men enjoyed the additional friction. So much, in fact, that Steve did not retaliate at all verbally against the tickle trap. Instead, he ‘retaliated’ by poking Bucky’s sides, his own reaction creating a similar moan-worthy friction. Bucky went in and poked for a second time, and though Steve started to squirm, he ended up leaning a bit too far backwards, and with an indignant yelp that resembled in no way the sigh he let out earlier, Steve landed halfway into the dishwater.

Leaping out quickly and stumbling to the ground, Steve snatched the nearby hand towel off the counter and began to pat the left side of his back dry. A small puddle forming on the floor where Bucky had previously stood, the taller man couldn’t help but let out a giggle before asking, “Are you alright?”

Clearly annoyed, Steve grumbled, “I was doing great, having a blast, the time of my life, before I sat down in dirty dish water! Now I have to shower again; I think I rubbed against a still-greased pan. What good is filling the sink with water if it’s not going to break down the food remnants on the cookware?” Deflated, Steve looked up and changed his tone to a quieter, shyer one, and following a light blush he added, “But I did enjoy everything up until the water.”

Bucky simply smiled down and nodded. “I did too.” They looked at each other, hearts practically in their eyes, for several moments before Steve began to pat himself down with the hand towel again.

Blush disappearing, Steve laughed. “I was serious about the shower,” Bucky blatantly deflated at the idea of leaving the apartment so Steve could shower and scrub the unwelcomed grease off. “But maybe we could go out on a date? Because, you know, the loser has to take the winner out on a date. I don’t know about with the cake, but I feel like a winner right now.” Bucky couldn’t help but adore the lopsided smile adorning Steve’s face.

“You sir have yourself a date, with me.” Glancing at the clock saying 4:15 pm-- time flies when you’re pining over your neighbor and then confessing feelings for each other-- Bucky stated, “I’ll swing by at 5:30 and we can plan our night from there.” He placed a kiss on the top of Steve’s head, seeing as the smaller man was still swiping away at his dampened back.

Pausing to look up, Steve agreed, and with one more peck on the lips, Bucky exited the apartment and silently cheered all ten of the steps it took to get to his own apartment.


End file.
